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IN  THIS  OUR  WORLD 


AND  OTHER    POEMS 


BY  CHARLOTTE   PERKINS  STETSON 


Would  ye  but  understand  I 
Joy  Is  on  every  band ! 
Ye  shut  your  eyes  and  call  it  night, 
Ye  grope  and  fall  In  seas  of  light- 
Would  ye  but  understand  1 


SAN   f  RANCISCO 

JAMBS  H.  BARRY  AND  JOHN  H.  MARBLE,  PUBLISHERS 
1895 


COPYRIGHT,  1893,  1895, 

BY    CHARLOTTE    PERKINS    STETSON. 
ALI,  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


PRESS  OF  JAMES  H.  BARRY,  439  MONTGOMERY  STREET,  S.  F. 


CONTENTS 


THE  WORLD. 

The  Rock  and  the  Sea,           ....  1 

Songs,  ...  .  .5 

The  Cup,            ......  6 

On  the  Pawtuxet,  ......  7 

Pioneers,  .... 

Heaven,        .....  .9 

Thanksgiving  Hymn,    .....  10 

Christmas  Carol,     ......  11 

The  Changeless  Year,  .  .  .13 

Where  Memory  Sleeps,     .....  14 

A  Prayer,           ...  14 

The  Ship,     '......  15 

A  Moonrise,       ......  15 

Nature's  Answer,    ......  16 

Among  the  Gods,          .....  18 

What  Then  ? 20 

Why  Not  ? 21 

A  Nevada  Desert,  ......  22 

v  The  Heart  of  the  Water,         ....  22 

^   The  Modern  Skeleton,       .....  23 

The  Lion  Path, 24 

Baby  Love,              ......  25 

Too  Much,           .....  26 

The  Prophets,          .                                                            .  26 

Reinforcements,                         ...  27 


iv  CONTENTS. 

THE  WORLD  (Continued). 

For  Us,  ...  .  '         .  .  .28 

Desire, 29 

In  Duty  Bound,      ......  30 

The  Lesson  of  Death,  .....  31 

WOMAN. 

She  Walketh  Veiled  and  Sleeping,        ...  3,3 

Girls  of  To-day,             .....  36 

Women  of  To-day,             .....  38 

To  Mothers,        ......  39 

"We,  as  Women,"  ......  42 

Six  Hours  a  Day,          .....  44 

Reassurance,            ......  45 

Ballade  of  ye  Gentil  Mayde,              ...  46 

Feminine  Vanity,               .....  48 

Females,              ......  50 

Ucsexed,      .......  52 

The  Holy  Stove,            .....  54 

A  Brood  Mare, 56 

False  Play,          ......  59 

To  the  Young  Wife,  Kjtt*J(  ^AA  (±Jk4/)    •           •  m 

An  Old  Proverb,            .....  62 

The  Child  Speaks, 63 

Mother  to  Child, 65 

To  Man 68 

She  Who  is  to  Come,              ....  71 

OUR  HUMAN  KIND. 

Similar  Cases,         ......  72 

A  Conservative,             .....  76 

The  Survival  of  the  Fittest,        ....  78 

An  Obstacle,     .              .....  80 

What 's  That  ? 82 

Christian  Virtues,         .....  84 

Wedded  Bliss, 87 

The  Sweet  Uses  of  Adversity,            ...  88 

A  Hope, 89 

The  Anueboid  Cell,      .  91 
The  Cart  Before  the  Horse,         .           .                       .94 


CONTENTS.  v 

OUR  HUMAN   KIND   (Continued). 

"The  Poor  Ye  have  Always  with  You,"      .           .  95 

Mr.  Rockefeller's  Prayer,             ....  96 

The  Old  Time  Wail, 98 

Poor  Human  Nature,         .....  ICO 

Charity 101 

Division  of  Property,    .  *  .  .  .  .  .102 

The  Dead  Level,            .           .           .           .           .  103 

The  Looker  On, 104 

Free  Land  is  Not  Enough,      ....  10(5 

Waste, 107 

Nationalism,       ......  108 

OTHER  POEMS. 

Ballad  of  the  Summer  Sun,         .  .  .  .113 

Wings 116 

Compromise,            ......  117 

As  Flew  the  Cross,       .....  118 

Services,       .  .  .  .  .  .  .119 

Seeking, 121 

Finding 122 

New  Duty,           ......  123 

Ruined,         .'.....  124 

Motherhood, 126 

The  Lost  Game,      ......  130 

Who  is  to  Blame  ?.....  132 

Out  of  Place,           ......  135 

Out  of  the  Gate,           .....  136 

Limits,          .......  138 

An  Economist,               .....  139 

The  Pig  and  the  Pearl,     .....  140 

A  Misfit,              ......  142 

The  Keeper  of  the  Light,  .  .  ,  .143 

It  is  Good  to  be  Alive,           ....  144 

Christmas  Hymn,  .  .  .  .  .145 

Thanksgiving,     ......  146 

Morning, 147 

The  Wolf  at  the  Door,             ....  148 

The  Living  God,     ......  150 


vi  CONTENTS. 

OTHER  POEMS  (Continued). 

My  Cyclamen,    .            .            .           .            .           .  152 

Birth, 153 

SONGS  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO   (From  The  Impress). 

The  Hills, 155 

City's  Beauty,         ......      156 

"An  Unusual  Rain,"     .....  157 

From  Russian  Hill,  .....      159 

Powell  Street,    ......  160 

THE  SATIRIST   (From  The  Impress). 

A  New  Year's  Reminder,              .           .           .  .163 

Little  Cell, 164 

The  Modest  Maid, 165 

Technique,          ......  166 

The  Mother's  Charge,        .           .           .           .  .167 

A  New  Creation,            .....  169 

Connoisseurs,        •  *           .           •           .           .  .170 

A  Type, 171 

Unmentionable,       .           .           .            .           .  .172 

New  Year's  Day, 173 

News,    .        .           .           .           .           .           .  .174 

The  Pastellette,             .           .           .           .          .  17g 

Work  and  Wages,              .           .           .           .  .176 

Step  Faster,  Please,    *.           .           .           .           .  177 

Our  San  Francisco  Climate,      '•..".           .  .178 

Christmas  Time,            .                        .            .            .  179 

In  Re  "  Andromaniacs,"   .            .           .           .  .181 

The  San  Francisco  Hen,          ....  182 

"En  Bane,"               .           .                        .           .  .183 


IN   THIS   OUR   WORLD. 


LMBt 


THE  WORLD. 


THE   ROCK   AND   THE   SEA. 

THE    ROCK. 

I  am  the  Rock,  presumptuous  Sea! 
I  am  set  to  encounter  thee. 
Angry  and  loud,  or  gentle  and  still, 
I  am  set  here  to  limit  thy  power,  and  I  will  — 
I  am  the  Rock  ! 

I  am  the  Rock.     From  age  to  age 
I  scorn  thy  fury  and  dare  thy  rage. 
Scarred  by  frost  and  worn  by  time, 
Brown  with  weed  and  green  with  slime, 
Thou   may'st   drench    and    defile    me  and  spit 

in  my  face, 

But  while  I  am  here  thou  keep'st   thy  place ! 
I   am  the  Rock  ! 


I  am  the  Rock,  beguiling  Sea  1 

I  know  thou  art  fair  as  fair  can  be, 

With  golden  glitter  and  silver  sheen 

And  bosom  of  blue  and  garments  of  green. 


IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Thou  may'st  pat  my  cheek  with  baby  hands, 
And  lap  my  feet  in  diamond  sands, 
And  play  before  me  as  children  play  ; 
But  plead  as  thou  wilt,  I -bar  the  way! 
I  am  the  Rock  ! 

I  am  the  Rock.     Black  midnight  falls  ; 
The  terrible  breakers  rise  like  walls ; 
With  curling  lips  and  gleaming  teeth 
They  plunge  and  tear  at  my  bones  beneath. 
Year  upon  year  they  grind  and  beat 
In  storms  of  thunder  and  storms  of  sleet  — 
Grind  and  beat  and  wrestle  and  tear, 
But  the  rock  they  beat  on  is  always  there  ! 
I  am  the  Rock ! 

THE  SEA. 

I  am  the  Sea.     I  hold  the  land 
As  one  holds  an  apple  in  his  hand. 
Hold  it  fast  with  sleepless  eyes, 
Watching  the  continents  sink  and  rise. 
Out  of  my  bosom  the  mountains  grow, 
Back  to  its  depths  they  crumble  slow ; 
The  earth  is  a  helpless  child  to  me  — 
T  am  the  Sea ! 

I  am  the  Sea.     When  I  draw  back 
Blossom  and  verdure  follow  my  track, 
And  the  land  I  leave  grows  proud  and  fair, 
For  the  wonderful  race  of  man  is  there ; 


THE   WORLD.  3 

And  the  winds  of  heaven  wail  and  cry 
While  the  nations  rise  and  reign  and  die  — 
Living  and  dying  in  folly  and  pain, 
While   the   laws   of  the   universe   thunder   in 

vain. 

What  is  the  folly  of  man  to  me? 
lam  the  Sea ! 

I  am  the  Sea.     The  earth  I  sway ; 
Granite  to  me  is  potter's  clay  ; 
Under  the  touch  of  my  careless  waves 
It  rises  in  turrets  and  sinks  in  caves  ; 
The  iron  cliffs  that  edge  the  land 
I  grind  to  pebbles  and  sift  to  sand, 
And  beach-grass  bloweth  and  children  play 
In  what  were  the  rocks  of  yesterday ; 
It  is  but  a  moment  of  sport  to  me  — 
I  am  the  Sea! 

I  am  the  Sea.     In  my  bosom  deep 
Wealth  and  Wonder  and  Beauty  sleep  ; 
Wealth  and  Wonder  and  Beauty  rise 
In  changing  splendor  of  sunset  skies 
And  comfort  the  earth  with  rains  and  snows 
Till  waves  the  harvest  and  laughs  the  rose. 
Flower  and  forest  and  child  of  breath 
With  me  have  life- — without  me,  death.. 
What  if  the  ships  go  down  in  me — ? 
I  am  the  Sea! 


IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


A  COMMON  INFERENCE. 

A  night :  mysterious,  tender,  quiet,  deep  ; 
Heavy  with  flowers ;  full  of  life  asleep  ; 
Thrilling  with  insect  voices  ;  thick  with  stars  ; 
No  cloud  between  the  dewdrops  and  red  Mars  ; 
The  small  earth  whirling  softly  on  her  way, 
The  moonbeams  and  the  waterfalls  at  play ; 
A  million  million  worlds  that  move  in  peace, 
A  million  mighty  laws  that  never  cease ; 
And  one  small  ant-heap,  hidden  by  small  weeds, 
Rich  with  eggs,  slaves,  and  store  of  millet  seeds. 
They  sleep  beneath  the  sod 
And  trust  in  God. 

A  day  :  all  glorious,  royal,  blazing  bright ; 
Heavy  with  flowers ;  full  of  life  and  light ; 
Great  fields  of  corn  and  sunshine;  courteous  trees; 
Snow-sainted  mountains  ;  earth-embracing   seas  • 
Wide  golden  deserts  ;  slender  silver  streams  ; 
Clear  rainbows  where  the  tossing  fountain  gleams > 
And  everywhere,  in  happiness  and  peace, 
A  million  forms  of  life  that  never  cease ; 
And  one  small  ant-heap,  crushed  by  passing  tread, 
Hath  scarce  enough  alive  to  mourn  the  dead  ! 
They  shriek  beneath  the  sod, 
"There  is  no  God!" 


THE    WORLD.  5 

SONGS. 
I. 

0  world  of  green,  all  shining,  shifting  ! 
0  world  of  blue,  all  living,  lifting ! 
0  world  where  glassy  waters  smoothly  roll ! 
Fair  earth,  and  heaven  free, 
Ye  are  but  part  of  me  — 
Ye  are  my  soul  ! 

0  woman  nature,  shining,  shifting  ! 
O  woman  creature,  living,  lifting ! 
Come  soft  and  still  to  one  who  waits  thee  here  ! 
Fair  soul,  both  mine  and  free, 
Ye  who  are  part  of  me, 
Appear !     Appear ! 

II. 

How  could  I  choose  but  weep? 
The  poor  bird  lay  asleep  ; 
For  lack  of  food,  for  lack  of  breath, 
For  lack  of  life  he  came  to  death  — 
How  could  I  choose  but  weep  ? 

How  could  I  choose  but  smile  ? 
There  was  no  lack  the  while  ! 
In  bliss  he  did  undo  himself ; 
Where  life  was  full  he  slew  himself — 
How  could  I  choose  but  smile  ? 


JJV  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

Would  ye  but  understand  ! 

Joy  is  on  every  hand  ! 

Ye  shut  your  eyes  and  call  it  night, 

Ye  grope  and  fall  in  seas  of  light  — 

Would  ye  but  understand ! 


THE  CUP. 

And  yet,  saith  he,  ye  need  but  sip  — 
And  who  would  die  without  a  taste  ? 

Just  touch  the  goblet  to  the  lip, 

Then  let  the  bright  draught  run  to  waste  ! 

She  set  her  lip  to  the  beaker's  brim  — 

JT  was  passing  sweet !     'T  was  passing  mild  ! 

She  let  her  large  eyes  dwell  on  him, 
And  sipped  again,  and  smiled. 

So  sweet !     So  mild  !     She  scarce  can  tell 

If  she  doth  really  drink  or  no  ; 
Till  the  light  doth  fade  and  the  shadows  swell, 

And  the  goblet  litth  low. 

O  cup  of  dreams  !     0  cup  of  doubt ! 

0  cup  of  blinding  joy  and  pain  ! 
The  taste  that  none  would  die, without! 

The  draught  that  all  the  world  must  drain  ! 


THE    WORLD.  7 

ON  THE  PAWTUXET. 

Broad  and  blue  is  the  river,  all  bright  in  the  sun  ; 
The  little  waves  sparkle,  the  little  waves  run  ; 
The  birds  carol  high,  and  the  winds  whisper  low; 
The  boats  beckon  temptingly,  row  upon  row; 
Her  hand  is  in  mine  as  I  help  her  step  in  — 
Please  Heaven,  this  day  I  shall  lose  or  shall  win  — 
Broad  and  blue  is  the  river. 

Cool  and  gray  is  the  river,  the  sun  sinks  apace, 
And  the  rose-colored  twilight  glows  soft  in  her  face. 
In  the  midst  of  the  rose-color  Venus  doth  shine, 
And  the  blossoming  wild  grapes  are  sweeter  than 

wine. 

Tall  trees  rise  above  us,  four  bridges  are  past, 
And    my    stroke's    running    slow    as    the    current 

runs  fast  — 

Cool  and  grey  is  the  river. 

Smooth    and   black   is    the   river,   no   sound  as  we 

float 

Save  the  soft-lapping  water  in  under  the  boat. 
The  white  mists  are  rising,  the  moon  's  rising  too, 
And  Venus,  triumphant,  rides  high  in  the  blue. 
I  hold  the  shawl  round  her,  her  hand  is  in  mine, 
And  we   drift   under   grape-blossoms    sweeter  than 

wine  — 

Smooth  and  black  is  the  river. 


IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


PIONEERS. 

Long  have  we  sung  our  noble  pioneers, 
Vanguard  of  progress,  heralds  of  the  time, 
Guardians  of  industry  and  art  sublime, 

Leaders  of  man  down  all  the  brightening  years  ! 

To  them  the  danger,  to  their  wives  the  tears, 
While  we  sit  safely  in  the  city's  grime, 
In  old-world  trammels  of  distress  and  crime, 

Playing  with  words  and    thoughts,  with    doubts 
and  fears. 

Children  of  axe  and  gun  !     Ye  take  to-day 
The  baby  steps  of  man's  first,  feeblest  age, 
While  we,  thought-seekers  of  the  printed  page, 

We  lead  the  world  down  its  untrodden  way  ! 
Ours  the  drear  wastes    and  leagues  of  empty 

waves, 
The  lonely  deaths,  the  undiscovered  graves. 


THE   WORLD. 


HEAVEN. 

Thou  bright  mirage,  that  o'er  man's  arduous  way 
Hast  hung  in  the  hot  sky,  with  fountains  stream- 
ing, 
Cool   marble    domes,  and    palm-fronds    waving, 

gleaming  — 

Vision  of  rest  and  peace  to  end  the  day  ! 
Now  he  is  weariest,  alone,  astray, 

Spent  with  long   labor,  led   by   thy  sweet  seem- 
ing— 

Faint  as  the  breath  of  Nature's  lightest  dreaming, 
Thou  waverest  and  vanishest  away  ! 

Can  Nature  dream  ?     Is  God's  great  sky  deceiving  ? 
Where  joy  like  that  the  clouds  above  us  show 
Be  sure  the  counterpart  must  lie  below, 

Sweeter  than  hope — more  blessed  than  believing  ! 
AVe  lose  the  fair  reflection  of  our  home 
Because  so  near  its  gates  our  feet  have  come  ! 


10  IN  THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

THANKSGIVING  HYMN. 

FOR   CALIFORNIA. 

Our  forefathers  gave  thanks  to  God, 

In  the  land  by  the  stormy  sea, 
For  bread   hard  wrung  from   the  iron  sod 

In   cold  and   misery. 
Though   every   day   meant  toil  and   strife, 

In  the   land   by  the  stormy  sea, 
They  thanked   their  God  for  the  gift  of  life  — 

How  much    the  more   should   we  ! 

Stern  frost  had  they  full  many  a  day, 

Strong  ice  on  the  stormy  sea, 
Long   months  of  snow,  gray   clouds   hung   low, 

And   a  cold   wind   endlessly ; 
Winter,  and  war  with    an   alien  race  — 

But  they  were  alive  and   free  ! 
And  they  thanked  their  God  for  his  good  grace  — 

How  much  the  more  should  we ! 

For  we  have  a  land  all  sunny  with  gold  — 

A   land  by  the   summer  sea  — 
Gold  in  the  earth  for  our  hands  to  hold, 

Gold  in  blossom  and  tree  ; 
Comfort,  and   plenty,   and  beauty,   and   peace, 

From   the   mountains   down  to  the    sea  — 
They  thanked  their  God  for  a  year's  increase  — 

How   much  the  more  should   we ! 


THE    WORLD.  11 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

FOR   LOS   ANGELES. 

On  the  beautiful  birthday  of  Jesus, 
While  the  nations  praising  stand, 
He  goeth  from  city  to  city, 
He  walketh  from  land  to  land. 

And  the  snow  lies  white  and  heavy, 
And  the  ice  lies  wide  and  wan, 
But  the  love  of  the  blessed  Christmas 
Melts  even  the  heart  of  man. 

With  love  from  the  heart  of  Heaven, 
In  the  power  of  His  Holy  Name, 
To  the  City  of  the  Queen  of  the  Angels, 
The  tender  Christ-child  came. 

The  land  blushed  red   with   roses, 
The  land  laughed  glad   with  grain, 
And  the  little   hills  smiled  softly 
In  the  freshness   after  rain. 

Land  of  the  fig  and  olive  ! 
Land   of  the   fruitful  vine  ! 
His  heart  grew   soft  within  him, 
As  he  thought  of  Palestine  — 

Of  the  brooks  with  the   banks  of  lilies, 
Of  the  little  doves  of  clay, 
And   of  how  he   sat  with  his    mother 
At  the  end  of  a  summer's  day, 


12  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

His  head  on   his  mother's  bosom, 
His  hand   in  his   mother's   hand, 
Watching  the  golden  sun  go   down 
Across  the  shadowy  land  — 

A  moment's  life  with  human  kind — 
A  moment  —  nothing  more  ; 
Eternity  lies  broad  behind — 
Eternity  before. 

High  on  the  Hills  of  Heaven, 
Majestic,  undefiled, 
Forever   and   ever  he  lives,   a  God  ; 
But  once   he  lived,  a  child  ! 

And  the  child-heart  leaps  within   him, 
And   the  child-eyes  softer  grow, 
When   the  land  lies  bright  and  sunny, 
Like  the  land  of  long   ago  ; 

And  the  love  of  God  is   mingled 
With  the  love  of  dear  days  gone, 
When   he  comes  to  the  city  of  his  mother, 
On  the  day  her  child   was  born  ! 


THE   WORLD.  13 

THE  CHANGELESS  YEAR. 

SOUTHERN    CALIFORNIA. 

Doth  Autumn   remind  thee  of  sadness  ? 
And   Winter  of  wasting  and  pain  ? 
Midsummer,  of  joy  that  was   madness  ? 
Spring,  of  hope  that  was  vain  ? 

Do  the  Seasons  fly  fast  at  thy  laughter  ? 
Do   the  Seasons  lag  slow  if  thou  weep, 
Till  thou  long'st  for  the  land  lying  after 
The  River  of  Sleep? 

Come  here,  where  the  West  lieth  golden 
In  the  light  of  an  infinite  sun, 
Where  Summer  doth  Winter  embolden 
Till  they  reign    here  as  one  ! 

Here  the  Seasons  tread  soft  and  steal  slowly; 
A  moment  of  question  and  doubt  — 
Is  it  Winter?     Come  faster!  —  come  wholly  !  — 
And  Spring  rusheth  out ! 

We  forget  there  are  tempests  and  changes  ; 
We  forget  there  are  days  that  are  drear; 
In  a  dream   of  delight,  the   soul  ranges 
Through  the  measureless  year. 

Still  the  land  is  with  blossoms  enfolden, 
Still  the  sky  burneth  blue  in  its  deeps, 
Time  noddeth,  'mid  poppies  all  golden, 
And  memory  sleeps. 


14  IN  THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

WHERE  MEMORY  SLEEPS. 

RONDEAU. 

Where  memory  sleeps  the  soul  doth  rise, 
Free  of  that  past  where  sorrow  lies, 
And  storeth  against  future  ills 
The  courage  of  the  constant  hills, 
The  comfort  of  the  quiet  skies. 

Fair  is  this  land  to  tired  eyes, 
Where  summer  sunlight  nev*er  dies, 

And  summer's  peace  the  spirit  fills, 
Where  memory  sleeps. 

Safe  from  the  season's  changing  cries 

And  chill  of  yearly  sacrifice, 

Great  roses  crowd  the  window  sills  — 
Calm  roses  that  no  winter  kills. 

The  peaceful  heart  all  pain  denies, 
Where  memory  sleeps. 


A  PRAYER. 

O  God!     I  cannot  ask  thee  to  forgive  — 

I  have  done  wrong  ! 
Thy  law  is  just  —  Thy  law  must  live  — 
Whoso  doth  wrong  must  suffer  pain  ! 
But  help  me  to  do  right  again  — 

Again  be  strong! 


THE    WORLD.  15 


THE  SHIP. 

The  sunlight  is  mine !     And  the  sea  ! 
And  the  four  wild  winds  that  blow  ! 
The  winds  of  heaven  that  whistle  free  — 
They  are  but  slaves  to  carry  me 
Wherever  I  choose  to  go  ! 

Fire  for  a  power  inside  ! 

Air  for  a  pathway  free  ! 
I  traverse  the  earth  in  conquest  wide ; 
The  sea  is  my  servant !    The  sea  is  my  bride  ! 
And  the  elements  wait  on  me  ! 


In  dull  green  light,  down-filtered  sick  and  slow 
Through  miles  of  heavy  water  overhead, 
With  miles  of  heavy  water  yet  below, 

A  ship  lies,  dead. 

Shapeless  and  broken,  swayed  from  side  to  side, 
The  helpless  driftwood  of  an  unknown  tide. 


A  MOONRISE. 

The  heavy  mountains,  lying  huge  and  dim, 
With  uncouth  outline  breaking  heaven's  brim  — 
And  while  I  watched  and  waited,  o'er  them  soon, 
Cloudy,  enormous,  spectral,  rose  the  moon. 


16  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


NATURE'S  ANSWER. 

A  man  would  build  a  house,  and  found  a  place 
As  fair  as  any  on  the  earth's  fair  face  : 

Soft    hills,    dark    woods,    smooth     meadows    richly 

green, 
And  cool  tree-shaded  lakes  the  hills  between. 

He  built  his  house  within  this  pleasant  land, 

A  stately  white-porched  house,  long  years  to  stand  ; 

But,  rising  from  his  paradise  so  fair, 

Came  fever  in  the  night  and  killed  him  there. 

"  0  lovely  land  !  "  he  cried,  "  how  could  I  know 
That  death  was  lurking  under  this  fair  show?" 

And  answered  Nature,  merciful,  and  stern, 
"I  teach  by  killing;  let  the  others  learn!" 

II. 

A  man  would  do  great  work,  good  work  and  true ; 
He  gave  all  things  he  had,  all  things  he  knew  ; 

He  worked  for  all  the  world  ;  his  one  desire 
To  make  the  people  happier,  better,  higher  ; 

Used  his  best  wisdom,  used  his  utmost  strength  ; 
And,  dying  in  the  struggle,  found  at  length, 

The  giant  evils  he  had  fought  the  same, 

And  that  the  world  he  loved  scarce  knew  his  name. 


THE    WORLD.  17 

"  Has  all  my  work  been  wrong  ?     I  meant  so  well ! 
I  loved  so  much  !"  he  cried,    "How  could  I  tell?" 

And  answered  Nature,  merciful,  and  stern, 
"  I  teach  by  killing  ;  let  the  others  learn." 

III. 

A  maid  was  asked  in  marriage.     Wise  as  fair,          i 
She  gave  her  answer  with  deep  thought  and  prayer,    \ 

Expecting,  in  the  holy  name  of  wife, 

Great  work,  great  pain,  and  greater  joy,  in  life. 

She  found  such  work  as  brainless  slaves  might  do, 
By  day  and  night,  long  labor,  never  through  ; 

Such  pain — no  language  can  her  pain  reveal ; 
It  had  no  limit  but  her  power  to  feel  ; 

Such  joy — life  left  in  her  sad  soul's  employ 
Neither  the  hope  nor  memory  of  joy. 

Helpless,  she  died,  with  one  despairing  cry, 

"I  thought  it  good  ;  how  could  I  tell  the  lie?" 

And  answered  Nature,  merciful  andjstern, 
"  I  teach  by  killing  ;  let  the  others  learn." 

9, 


18  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


AMONG   THE   GODS. 

How  close  the  air  of  valleys,  and  how  close 

The  teeming  little  life  that  harbors  there  ! 

For  me,  I  will  climb  mountains.     Up  and  up, 

Higher  and  higher,  till  I  pant  for  breath 

In  that  thin  clearness.     Still  ?     There  is  no  sound 

Nor  memory  of  sound  upon  these  heights. 

Ah  !  the  great  sunlight !     The  caressing  sky 

The  beauty,  and  the  stillness,  and  the  peace  ! 

I  see  my  pathway  clear  for  miles  below  ; 

See  where  I  fell,  and  set  the  friendly  sign 

To  warn  some  other  of  the  danger  there. 

The  green  small  world   is  wide  below  me  spread. 

The  great  small  world  !     Some  things  look  large 

and  fair 

Which,  in  their  midst,  I  could  not  even  see  ; 
And  some  look  small  which  used  to  terrify. 
Blessed  these  heights  of  freedom,  wisdom,  rest ! 
I  will  go  higher  yet. 

A  sea  of  cloud 

Rolls  soundless  waves  between  me  and  the  world. 
This  is  the  zone  of  everlasting  snows, 
And  the  sweet  silence  of  the  hills   below 
Is  song  and  laughter  to  the  silence  here. 
Great  fields,  huge  peaks,  long  awful  slopes  of  snow. 
Alone,  triumphant,  man   above  the  world, 
I  stand  among  these  white  eternities. 


THE    WORLD.  19 

Sheer  at  my   feet 

Sink  the   unsounded,  cloud -encumbered  gulfs; 
And  shifting  mists  now  veil  and   now   reveal 
The  unknown   fastnesses  above   me  yet. 
J    am   alone  —  above   all  life  —  sole  king 
Of  these  white  wastes.     How  pitiful  and  small 
Becomes   the   outgrown  world  !     I   reign   supreme, 
And   in   this  utter  stillness  and  wide  peace 
Look  calmly  down   upon  the  universe. 

Surely  that  crest  has  changed  !     That  pile  of  cloud 
That  covers  half  the  sky,  waves  like  a  robe  ! 

That  large   and   gentle   wind 
Is  like  the  passing  of  a  presence  here  ! 
See  how  yon   massive   mist -enshrouded  peak 
Is  like   the   shape   of  an   unmeasured  foot  — 
The  figure  with  the  stars  ! 
Ah  !    what  is  this  !     It  moves,  lifts,  bends,  is  gone  ! 

With   what   a   shocking   sense   of  littleness  — 
A  reeling  universe  that  changes  place, 
And   falls  to   new  relation  over  me  — 
I  feel  the  unseen   presence  of  the  gods  ! 


20  IN   THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

WHAT  THEN? 

Suppose  you  write  your  heart  out  till    the  world 
Sobs  with  one  voice  —  what  then? 

Small  agonies  that  round  your  heart-strings  curled 
Strung  out   for  choice,  that   men 

May   pick   a  phrase,   each   for   his   own   pet  pain, 
And   thank   the  voice    so   come, 
They   being   dumb.     What  then  ? 

You  have  no  sympathy  ?     0  endless  claim  ! 

No  one  that  cares  ?     What  then  ? 
Suppose   you   had  —  the   whole    world    knew    your 

name 

And  your  affairs,   and   men 
Ached  with  your  headache,  dreamed  your  dreadful 

dreams, 

And,  with  your  heart  -  break  due, 
Their  hearts  broke  too.     What  then  ? 

You  think  that  people  do  not  understand  ? 

You  suffer?     Die?     What  then? 
Unhappy  child,  look  here,  on  either  hand, 

Look  low  or  high  —  all  men 
Suffer  and  die,  and  keep  it  to  themselves  ! 

They  die  —  they  suffer  sore  — 

You  suffer  more  ?     What  then  ? 


THE   WORLD.  21 


WHY   NOT? 

Why  not  look  forward  far  as  Plato  looked 
And  see  the  beauty  of  our  coming  life, 
As  he  saw  that  which  might  be  ours  to-day  ? 
If  his  soul,  then,  could  rise  so  far  beyond 
The  brutal  average  of  that  old  time, 
When  icy  peaks  of  art  stood  sheer  and  high 
In  fat  black  valleys  where  the  helot  toiled  — 
If  he,  from  that,  could  see  so  far  ahead, 
Could  forecast  days  when  Love  and  Justice  both 
Should  watch  the  cradle  of  a  healthy  child, 
And  Wisdom  walk  with  Beauty  and  pure  Joy 
In  all  the  common  ways  of  daily  life  — 
Then  may  not  we,  from  great  heights  hardly  won, 
Bright  hills  of  liberty,  broad  plains  of  peace, 
And  flower-sweet  valleys  of  warm  human  love, 
Still  broken  by  the  chasms  of  despair 
Where  Poverty  and  Ignorance  and  Sin 
Pollute  the  air  of  all  —  why  not,  from  this, 
Look  on  as  Plato  looked,  and  see  the  day 
When  his  Republic  and  our  Heaven,  joined, 
Shall  make  life  what  God  meant  it  ? 
Ay,  we  do ! 


IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


A   NEVADA   DESERT. 

An   aching,   blinding,  barren,  endless   plain, 

Corpse- colored   with  white  mould  of  alkali, 
Hairy   with   sage-brush,  slimy  after   rain, 
Burnt  with  the   sky's   hot  scorn,  and   still  again 
Sullenly  burning  back  against  the  sky. 

Dull  green,  dull  brown,  dull  purple,  and  dull  grey, 
The   hard   earth   white   with  ages   of  despair, 
Slow-crawling,  turbid  streams  where  dead  reeds  sway, 
Low  wall  of  somber  mountains  far  away, 
And  sickly  steam  of  geysers  on   the  air. 


THE   HEART   OF   THE   WATER. 

0  the  ache  in   the  heart  of  the   water  that  lies 
Underground  in  the  desert,  unopened,  unknown  — 
While  the  seeds  lie  unbroken,  the  blossoms  unblown, 
And  the  traveller  wanders  —  the  traveller  dies  ! 

0  the  joy  in  the  heart  of  the  water  that  flows 
From  the  well  in  the  desert  —  a  desert  no  more  — 
Bird -music  and  blossoms  and  harvest  in  store, 
And  the  white  shrine  that  showeth   the  traveller 
knows  ! 


THE    WORLD.  23 


THE    MODERN  [SKELETON. 

-r--  -*U 
As  kings  of  old  in   riotous  royal  feasts, 

Among  the  piled  up  roses  and  the  wine, 
Amidst  the  music  and  the  dancing  girls, 
The   pearls  and  gold  and  barbarous  luxury, 
Used  to  show  also  a  white  skeleton  — 
To  make  life  meeker  in  the  sight  of  death, 
To  make  joy  sweeter  by  the  thought  thereof — 

So  our  new  kings   in  their  high  banqueting, 
With  the  electric  lustre  unforeseen, 
And  unimagined  costliness  of  flowers  ; 
Rich  wines  of  price  and  food  as  rare  as  gems* 
And  all  the  wondrous  waste   of  artifice  ; 
Midst  high-bred  elegance  and  jeweled  ease 
And  beauty  of  rich  raiment,  they  should  set, 
High  before  all,  a  sickly  pauper  child, 
To  keep  the  rich  in   mind  of  poverty — 
The  sure  concomitant  of  their  estate. 


24  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

THE   LION   PATH. 

I  dare  not !  — 

Look!  the  road  is  very  dark  — 
The'trees  stir  softly  and  the  bushes  shake, 
The  long  grass  rustles,  and  the  darkness  moves 
Here!  there!  beyond — ! 

There's  something  crept  across  the  road  just  now! 
And  you  would  have  me  go — ? 
Go  there,  through  that  live  darkness,  hideous 
With  stir  of  crouching  forms  that  wait  to  kill  ? 
Ah,  look  !     See  there  !  and  there  !  and  there  again  ! 
Great  yellow  glassy  eyes,  close  to  the  ground  ! 
Look !     Now  the  clouds  are  lighter  I  can  see 
The  long  slow  lashing  of  the  sinewy  tails, 
And  the  set  quiver  of  strong  jaws  that  wait —  ! 
Go  there  ?     Not  I  !     Who  dares  to  go  who  sees 
So  perfectly  the  lions  in  the  path  ? 

Comes  one  who  dares. 

Afraid  at  first,  yet  bound 
On  such  high  errand  as  no  fear  could  stay. 
Forth  goes  he,  with  lions  in  his  path. 
And  then  —  ? 

He  dared  a  death  of  agony  — 
Outnumbered  battle  with  the  king  of  beasts  — 
Long  struggle  in  the  horror  of  the  night  — 
Dared,  and  went  forth  to  meet  —  0  ye  who  fear! 


THE   WORLD.  25 


Finding  an  empty  road,  and  nothing  there  — 
A  wide,  bare,  common  road,  with  homely  fields, 
And  fences,  and  the  dusty  roadside  trees  — 
Some  spitting  kittens,  maybe,  in  the  grass. 


BABY   LOVE. 

Baby  Love  came  prancing  by, 
Cap   on   head   and    sword   on   thigh, 
Horse  to   ride  and   drum   to   beat  — 
All  the  world   beneath  his  feet. 

Mother  Life  was  sitting  there, 
Hard   at  work   and  full   of  care, 
Set  of  mouth  and  sad  of  eye  — 
Baby  Love  came  prancing  by. 

Baby  Love  was  very  proud, 
Very  lively,  very  loud  — 
Mother  Life  arose   in  wrath, 
Set  an  arm  across  his  path. 

Baby  Love  wept  loud  and  long, 
But  his   mother's  arm   was  strong. 
Mother  had  to  work,  she  said. 
Baby  Love  was  put  to  bed. 


IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


TOO   MUCH. 

There  are  who  die  without  love,  never  seeing 
The  clear  eyes  shining,  the  bright  wings  fleeing. 
Lonely    they    die,   and    ahungered,    in    bitterness 

knowing 
They  have  not  had  their  share  of  the  good  there 

was  going. 

There    are    who    have    and    lose    love,    these    most 

blessed, 

In  joy  unstained  which  they  have  once  possessed, 
Lost  while  still  dear,  still  sweet,  still  met  by  glad 

affection  — 
An  endless  happiness  in  recollection. 

And  some  have  Love's  full  cup  as  he  doth  give  it  — 
Have  it,  and  drink  of  it,  and  ah,  —  outlive  it! 
Full  fed  by  Love's  delights,  o'erwearied,  sated  — 
They  die,  not  hungry  —  only  suffocated. 


THE  PROPHETS. 

Time  was  we  stoned  the  Prophets.     Age  on   age, 
When    men   were  strong  to  save,  the  world  hath 

slain  them. 

People  are  wiser  now  ;  they  waste  no  rage  — 
The  Prophets  entertain  them  ! 


THE   WORLD.  27 

REINFORCEMENTS. 

Yea,  we  despair.     Because  the   night  is   long, 

And  all  arms  weary   with   the  endless   fight 

With    blind,  black   forces   of  insulted  law 

Which  we  continually  disobey, 

And   know  not   how   to   honor  if  we   would. 

How  can  we  fight  when  every  effort  fails, 

And  the  vast  hydra  looms  before  us  still 

Headed  as  thickly  as  at  dawn   of  day, 

Fierce  as  when  evening  fell  on  us  at  war. 

We  are  aweary,  and  no  help  appears  ; 

No  light,  no  knowledge,  no  sure  way  to  kill 

Our  ancient  enemy.     Let  us  give   o'er! 

We  do  but  fight  with  fate  !    Lay  down  your  arms  ! 

Retreat !     Surrender  !     Better  live   as  slaves 

Than  fight  forever  on  a  losing  field  ! 

Hold,  ye  faint-hearted!     Ye   are  not   alone! 
Into  your  worn  -  out  ranks  of  weary  men 
Come   mighty  reinforcements,  even  now  ! 
Look  where  the  dawn  is  kindling  in  the  east, 
Lit  with  the  glory  of  the  better  day  — 
A  countless  host,  an   endless   host,  all  fresh, 
With  unstained  banners  and  unsullied  shields, 
With   shining  swords  that  point  to   victory, 
And  great,  young  hearts  that  know  not  how  to 

fear  — 
The  Children   come  to  save  the  weary  world  ! 


IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


FOR    US. 

If  we  have  not  learned  that  God's  in  man, 

And  man  in  God  again  — 
That  to  love  thy  God  is  to  love  thy  brother, 
And  to  serve  the  Lord  is  to  serve  each  other  — 

Then  Christ  was  born  in  vain  ! 

If  we  have  not  learned  that  one  man's  life 

In  all  men  lives  again  — 
That  each  man's  battle,  fought  alone, 
Is  won  or  lost  for  every  one  — 

Then  Christ  hath  lived  in  vain  ! 

If  we  have  not  learned  that  death  's  no  break 

In  life's  unceasing  chain  — 
That  the  work  in  one  life  well  begun 
In  others  is  finished,  by  others  is  done  — 

Then  Christ  hath  died  in  vain  ! 

If  we  have  not  learned  of  immortal  life, 

And  a  future  free  from  pain  — 
The  kingdom  of  God  in  the  heart  of  man, 
And  the  living  world  on  Heaven's  plan  — 
Then  Christ  arose  in  vain  ! 


THE    WORLD.  29 

DESIRE. 

Lo,  I  desire  !     Sum  of  the  ages'  growth  — 

Fruit  of  evolving  eras  —  king  of  life  — 

I,  holding  in  myself  the  outgrown  past 

In  all  its  ever-rising  forms  —  desire. 

With  the  first  grass-blade,  I  desire  the  sun  ; 

With  every  bird  that  breathes,  I  love  the  air  ; 

With  fishes,  joy  in  water  ;  with  my  horse, 

Exult  in  motion  ;  with  all  living  flesh, 

Long  for  sweet  food  and  warmth  and  mate  and 

young  ; 

With  the  whole  rising  tide  of  that  which  is, 
Thirst  for  advancement  —  crave  and  yearn  for  it ! 
Yea,  I  desire  !     Then  the  compelling  will 
Urges  to  action  to  attain  desire. 
What  action  ?     Which  desire  ?     Am  I  a  plant, 
Rooted  and  helpless,  following  the  light 
Without  volition  ?     Or  am  I  a  beast, 
Led  by  desire  into  the  hunter's  snare  ? 
Am  I  a  savage,  swayed  by  every  wish, 
Brutal  and  feeble,  a  ferocious  child  ? 
Stand  back,  Desire,  and  put  your  plea  in  words. 
No  wordless  wailing  for  the  summer  moon  — 
No  Gilpin  race  on  some  strong  appetite  — 
Stand  here  before  the  King,  and  make  your  plea. 
If  Reason  sees  it  just,  you  have  your  wish  ; 
If  not,  your  wish  is  vain,  plead  as  you  will. 
The  court  is  open,  beggar  !     I  am  King  I 


IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

IN   DUTY   BOUND. 

In   duty   bound,  a  life  hemmed  in 

Whichever  way  the  spirit  turns  to  look  — 
No   chance  of  breaking   out,  except  by   sin  — 

Not  even   room  to   shirk  — 

Simply  to  live,  and  work. 

An  obligation  pre-imposed,  unsought, 

Yet  binding   with  the   force    of  natural   law  ; 

The  pressure   of  antagonistic   thought ; 
Aching   within,  each   hour, 
A  sense   of  wasting  power. 

A  narrow   house  with  roof  so   darkly  low 

The  heavy   rafters  shut  the   sunlight  out ; 
One  cannot  stand   erect   without  a  blow  ; 

Until  the   soul   inside 

Shrieks  for  a  grave  —  more  wide. 

A   consciousness  that  if  this  thing   endure 

The  common  joys  of  life  will  dull  the  pain 
The  high   ideals  of  the  grand  and  pure 

Die,  as  of  course  they  must, 

Of  long  disuse  and  rust. 

That  is  the  worst.     It  takes  supernal  strength 
To  hold  the  attitude  that  brings  the   pain  ; 
4nd  they  are  few  indeed  but  stoop  at  length 
To  something  less  than  best, 
To  find,  in  stooping,  rest. 


THE    WORLD.  31 

THE   LESSON   OF   DEATH. 

TO    8.     T.     D. 

In   memory  of  one  whose   breath 
Blessed  all  with  words  wise,  loving,  brave  ; 
Whose  life  was  service,  and  whose  death 
Unites  our  hearts  around   her  grave. 
****** 

Another  blow  has  fallen,  Lord — 

Was  it  from  thee  ? 
Is  it  indeed  thy   fiery  sword 
That  cuts  our  hearts?    We  know  thy  word — 
We  know  by  heart  wherein  it  saith 
"  Whom  the  Lord  loves  he  chasteneth  " — 
But  also,  in   another  breath, 
This  :  "  The  wages  of  sin  is  death." 

How  may  we  tell  what  pain  is  good, 

In   mercy  sent  ? 

And  what  is   evil   through   and  through, 
Sure  consequence  of  what  we  do, 
Sure  product  of  thy   broken  laws, 
Certain  effect  of  given   cause, 

Just  punishment  ? 

Not  sin   of  those  who  suffer,  Lord  — 
To   them   no   shame. 
For  father's  sins  our  children   die 
With   Justice  sitting   idly   by ; 


JN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

The  guilty  thrive  nor  yet  repent, 
While   sorrow  strikes  the   innocent  — 

Whom  shall  we   blame  ? 

'Tis  not  that  one  alone  is  dead 

And  these  bereft  — 

For   her,   for  them,  we  grieve   indeed  ; 

But  there  are  other   hearts  that   bleed  ! 

All  up  and  down  the  world   so  wide 

We  suffer,  Lord,  on  every  side  — 
We  who  are  left. 

See  now,  we  bend  our  stricken   hearts, 

Patient  and  still  — 
Knowing  thy  laws   are  wholly  just, 
Knowing  thy   love   commands  our   trust, 
Knowing  that  good  is  God  alone, 
That  pain   and  sorrow  are  our  own, 
And  seeking  out  of  all  our  pain 
To  struggle  up  to  God  again  — 

Teach   us  thy  will  ! 

When  shall  we  learn   by  common  joy] 

Broad   as  the  [sun, 
By  common  effort,  common  fear, 
All  common  life  thai    holds   us   near, 
And   this  great  bitter  common   pain 
Coming  again   and  yet  again  — 

That  we   are  one  ? 


THE    WORLD.  33 

Yea,  one.     We  cannot  sin  apart  — 

Suffer  alone  — 

Nor  keep  our  goodness  to  ourselves 
Like  precious  things  on  hidden  shelves. 
Because  we  each  live  not  our  best, 
Some  one  must  suffer  for  the  rest  — 

For  we  are  one  ! 


Our  pain  is  but  the  voice  of  wrong  — 

Lord,  help  us  hear  ! 
Teach  us  to  see  the  truth  at  last, 
To  mend  our  future  from  our  past, 
To  know  thy  laws  and  find  them  friends, 
Leading  us  safe  to  lovely  ends, 

Thine  own  hand  near. 

Not  one  by  doing  right  alone 

Can  mend  the  way ; 
But  we  must  all  do  right  together  — 
Love,  help,  and  serve  each  other,  whether 
We  joy  or  suffer.     So  at  last 
Shall  needless  pain  and  death  be  past, 
And  we,  thy  children  living  here, 
Be  worthy  of  our  father  dear !  — 

God  speed  the  day  ! 
***** 

0  help  us,  Father,  from  this  loss 

To  learn  thy  will  J 


34  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

So  shall  our  lost  one  live  again  ; 
So  shall  her  life  not  pass  in  vain  ; 
So  shall  we  show  in  better  living  — 
In  loving,  helping,  doing,  giving  — 
That  she  lives  still! 


WOMAN. 


SHE   WALKETH   VEILED   AND    SLEEPING. 

She  walketh  veiled  and  sleeping, 
For  she  knoweth  not  her  power ; 
She  obeyeth  but  the  pleading 
Of  her  heart,  and  the  high  leading 
Of  her  soul,  unto  this  hour. 
Slow  advancing,  halting,  creeping, 
Comes  the  Woman  to  the  hour!  — 
She  walketh  veiled  and  sleeping, 
For  she  knoweth  not  her  power. 


36  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


GIRLS   OF   TO-DAY. 

Girls  of  to  -  day  !     Give  ear  ! 
Never  since  time  began 
Has  come  to  the  race  of  man 
A  year,  a  day,  an  hour, 
So  full  of  promise  and  power 

As  the  time  that  now  is  here  ! 

Never  in  all  the  lands 
Was  there  a  power  so  great, 
To  move  the  wheels  of  state  — 
To  lift  up  body  and  mind  — 
To  waken  the  deaf  and  blind  — 

As  the  power  that  is  in  your  hands 

Here  at  the  gates  of  gold 
You  stand  in  the  pride  of  youth, 
Strong  in   courage  and  truth, 
Stirred  by  a  force  kept  back 
Through  centuries  long  and  black, 

Armed  with  a  power  threefold  ! 

First :     You  are  makers  of  men  ! 
Then  Be  the  things  you  preach ! 
Let  your  own  greatness  teach  ! 
When  mothers  like  this  you  see 
Men  will  be  strong  and  free  — 

Then,  and  not  till  then! 


WOMAN.  37 

Second  :     Since  Adam  fell, 
Have  you  not  heard  it  said 
That  men  by   women  are  led  ? 
True  is  the  saying  —  true  ! 
See  to  it  what  you  do  ! 

See  that  you  lead  them  well! 

Third  :     You  have  work  of  your  own  ! 
Maid  and  mother  and  wife, 
Look  in  the  face  of  life! 
There  are  duties  you  owe  the  race ! 
Outside  your  dwelling  place 

There  is  work  for  you  alone  ! 

Maid  and  mother  and  wife, 
See  your  own   work  be  done  ! 
Be  worthy  a  noble  son  ! 
Help   man   in   the  upward  way  ! 
Truly,  a  girl  to-day 

Is  the  strongest  thing  in  life  ! 


38  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

WOMEN   OF   TO-DAY. 

You  women  of  to -day  who  fear  so  much 
The  women  of  the  future,  showing  how 
The  dangers  of  her  course  are  such  and  such  — 
What  are  you  now  ? 

Mothers  and  Wives  and  Housekeepers,  forsooth  ! 
Great  names  !  you  cry,  full  scope  to  rule  and  please  ! 
Room  for  wise  age  and  energetic  youth!  — 
•    But  are  you  these  ? 

Housekeepers  ?     Do  you  then,  like  those  of  yore, 
Keep  house  with  power  and  pride,  with  grace  and 

ease? 

No,  you  keep  servants  only  !     What  is  more, 
You  don't  keep  these  ! 

Wives,  say  you  ?     Wives  !     Blessed  indeed  are  they 
Who  hold  of  love  the  everlasting  keys, 
Keeping  their  husbands'  hearts  !     Alas  the  day  ! 
You  don't  keep  these  ! 

And  mothers  ?     Pitying  Heaven  !     Mark  the  cry 
From  cradle  death -beds  !     Mothers  on  their  knees  ! 
Why,  half  the  children  born  —  as  children  die  ! 
You  don't  keep  these  ! 

And  still  the  wailing  babies  come  and  go, 
And  homes  are  waste,  and  husbands'  hearts  fly  far, 
There  is  no  hope  until  you  dare  to  know 
The  thing  you  are  ! 


WOMAN.  39 


TO   MOTHERS. 

In  the  name  of  your  ages  of  anguish  ! 
In  the  name  of  the  curse  and  the  stain  ! 
By  the  strength  of  your  sorrow  I  call  you  ! 
By  the  power  of  your  pain  ! 

We  are  Mothers.     Through  us  in  our  bondage, 
Through  us  with  the  brand  in  the  face  — 
Be  we  fettered  with  gold  or  with  iron  — 
Through  us  comes  the  race  ! 

With  the  weight  of  all  sin  on  our  shoulders, 
Midst  the  serpents  of  shame  ever  curled, 
We  have  sat,  unresisting,  defenseless, 
Making  the  men  of  the  world. 

We  were  ignorant  long,  and  our  children 
Were  besotted  and  brutish  and  blind, 
King -driven,  priest-ridden  —  who  were  they  ? 
Our  children  —  mankind! 

We  were  kept  for  our  beauty,  our  softness, 
Our  sex;  —  what  reward  do  ye  find? 
We  transmit,  must  transmit,  being  mothers, 
What  we  are  to  mankind  ! 

As  the  mother,  so  follow  the  children  ! 
No  nation,  wise,  noble,  and  brave, 
Ever  sprang — though  the  father  had  freedom — 
From  the  mother  —  a  slave! 


40  IN  THIS  OUR  WORLD. 

Look  now  at  the  world  as  ye  find  it ! 
Blench  not !     Truth  is  kinder  than  lies  ! 
Look  now  at  the  world  —  see  it  suffer! 
Listen  now  to  its  cries  ! 

See  the  people  who  suffer — all  people! 
All  humanity  wasting  its  powers 
In  a  hand  to  hand  struggle,  death -dealing  — 
All  children  of  ours ! 

The  blind  millionaire  —  the  blind  harlot  — 
The  blind  preacher  leading  the  blind  — 
Only  think  of  their  pain,  how  it  hurts  them  ! 
Our  little  blind  babies  —  mankind! 

Shall  we  bear  it,  we  mothers  who  love  them  ? 
Can  we  bear  it,  we  mothers  who  feel 
Every  pang  of  our  babes,  and  forgive  them 
Every  sin  when  they  kneel  ? 

Little  stumlaug  world!     You  have  fallen! 
You  are  crying  in  darkness  and  fear  ! 
Wait,  darling  —  your  mother  is  coming! 

Hush,  darling  —  your  mother  is  here! 

We  are  here  like  an  army  with  banners, 
The  great  flag  of  our  freedom  unfurled ! 
With  us  rests  the  fate  of  the  nations. 
For  we  make  the  world  ! 


WOMAN.  41 

Dare  ye  sleep  while  your  children  are  calling? 
Dare  ye  wait  while  they  clamor  unfed  ? 
Dare  ye  pray  in  the  proud  pillared  churches 
While  they  suffer  for  bread  ? 

If  the  father  hath  sinned,  he  shall  answer  ; 
If  he  check  thee,  laugh  back  at  his  powers. 
Shall  a  mother  be  kept  from  her  children  ? 
These  people  are  ours  ! 

They  are  ours  !     He  is  ours,  for  we  made  him  ! 
In  our  arms  he  has  nestled  and  smiled  ! 
Shall  we,  the  world -mothers,  be  hindered 
By  the  freaks  of  a  child? 

Rise  now,  in  the  power  of  The  Woman  ! 
Rise  now,  in  the  hour  of  our  need  ! 
The  world  cries  in  hunger  and  darkness  ! 
We  shall  light !     We  shall  feed  ! 

In  the  name  of  our  ages  of  anguish  ; 
In  the  name  of  the  curse  and  the  stain; 
By  the  strength  of  our  sorrow  we  conquer!  — 
In  the  power  of  our  pain  ! 


42  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

"WE,   AS    WOMEN." 

There's  a  cry  in  the  air  about  us  — 
We   hear  it  before  —  behind  — 
Of  the  way  in  which  "  We,  as  women," 
Are  going  to  lift   mankind  ! 

With  our  white  frocks  starched  and  ruffled, 
And  our  soft  hair   brushed  and  curled  — 
Hats  off!   for  "we,  as  women," 
Are   coming  to   help   the   world  ! 

Fair  sisters,  listen  one   moment  — 
And  perhaps  you'll  pause   for  ten  — 
The  business  of  women  as   women 
Is  only  with   men  as  men  ! 

What  we  do,  "we,  as  women," 
We  have  done  all  through  our  life  ; 
The  work  that  is  ours  as  women 
Is  the  work  of  mother  and   wife  ! 

But  to  elevate  public  opinion, 
And  to  lift  up  erring  man, 
Is  the  work  of  the  Human   Being  — 
Let  us  do  it  —  if  we  can. 

But  wait,  warm-hearted  sisters  — 

Not  quite   so   fast,  so  far  — 

Tell  me  how   we  are  going  to  lift  a  thing 

Any  higher  than  we  are! 


WOMAN.  43 

We  are  going  to  "  purify  politics," 
And  to  "  elevate  the  press." 
We  enter  the  foul  paths  of  the   world 
To  sweeten  and  cleanse  and  bless. 

To  hear  the  high  things  we  are  going  to  do, 
And  the  horrors  of  man  we  tell, 
One  would  think  "we,  as  women,"  were  angels 
And  our  brothers  were  fiends  of  hell. 

We,  that  were   born  of  one  mother, 
And  reared  in  the  selfsame  place  — 
In  the  school  and  the  church  together  — 
We,  of  one  blood,  one  race ! 

Now  then,  all  forward  together ! 
But  remember,  every  one, 
That  it  is  not  by  feminine  innocence 
The  work  of  the  world  is  done. 

The  world  needs  strength   and  courage, 
And  wisdom  to   help  and   feed  — 
When  "  we,  as  women,"  bring  these  to  man 
We  shall  lift  the  world  indeed ! 


44  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

SIX   HOURS   A   DAY. 

Six  hours  a  day  the  woman   spends  on  food  ! 

Six   mortal   hours  a   day. 

With  fire  and  water  toiling,  heat  and  cold  — 

Struggling  with  laws  she  does  not  understand 

Of  chemistry   and  physics,  and   the   weight 

Of  poverty  and  ignorance  beside. 

Toiling  for  those  she  loves,  the  added  strain 

Of  tense  emotion  on  her  humble  skill, 

The  sensitiveness  born  of  love  and  fear 

Making  it  harder  to  do  even  work. 

Toiling  without  release,  no  hope  ahead 

Of  taking  up  another  business   soon, 

Of  varying  the  task  she  finds  too  hard  — 

This,  her  career,  so  closely  interknit 

With  holier  demands  as  deep  as  life 

That  to  refuse  to  cook  is   held  the  same 

As  to  refuse  her  wife  and  motherhood. 

Six  mortal  hours  a  day  to  handle  food  — 

Prepare  it,  serve  it,  clean  it  all   away  — 

With   allied  labors  of  the  stove  and  tub, 

The  pan,  the  dishcloth,  and  the  scrubbing-brush. 

Developing  forever  in   her   brain 

The  power  to  do  this  work  in  which  she  lives  ; 

While  the  slow  finger  of  Heredity 

Writes  on  the   forehead  of  each   living   man, 

Strive  as  he  may,  "  His  mother  was  a  cook ! " 


WOMAN.  45 


REASSURANCE. 

Can  you  imagine  nothing  better,  brother, 
Than  that  which  you  have  always  had  before  ? 
Have  you  been  so  content  with  "  wife  and  mother  " 
You  dare  hope  nothing  more  ? 

Have  you  forever  prized  her,  praised  her,  sung  her, 
The  happy  queen  of  a  most  happy  reign  ? 
Never  dishonored  her,  despised  her,  flung  her 
Derision  and  disdain  ? 

Go  ask  the  literature  of  all  the  ages  ! 
Books  that  were  written  before  women  read  — 
Pagan  and  Christian,  satirists  and  sages  — 
Read  what  the  world  has  said  ! 

There  was  no  power  on  earth  to  bid  you  slacken 
The  generous  hand  that  painted  her  disgrace  ! 
There  was  no  shame  on  earth  too  black  to  blacken 
That  much  praised  woman -face! 

Eve  and  Pandora!  —  always  you  begin  it  — 
The  ancients  called  her  Sin  and  Shame  and  Death  ! 
"There  is  no  evil  without  a  woman  in  it," 
The  modern  proverb  saith  ! 

She  has  been  yours  in  uttermost  possession  — 
Your  slave,  your  mother,  your  well-chosen  bride  — 
And  you  have  owned,  in  million -fold  confession, 
You  were  not  satisfied. 


46  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Peace  then  !    Fear  not  the  coming  woman,  brother ! 
Owning  herself,  she  giveth  all  the  more  ! 
She  shall  be  better  woman,  wife,  and  mother 
Than   man  hath  known  before  ! 


BALLADE   OF  YE   GENTIL   MAYDE. 

Shee  was  a  mayde,  a  gentil  mayde, 
Her  hearte  was  softe  and  kynde, 

And  yet  shee  lyked  her  horse's  tayle 
Cut  off  behynde,  behynde  — 
Cut  off  full  shorte  behynde. 

With  blynders,  checks,  and  martyngales 
That  hapless  beaste  was  tyde, 

Or  else  her  sadylle  galled  his  backe 
Whenever  shee  did  ryde. 
0  why  not  sit  astride  ? 

Shee  had  a  dogge,  a  lyttel  dogge, 
Shee  wore  him  on   a  chayne, 

Shee  made  him  fatte,  shee  made  him  sickke, 
And  so  he  dyed  in  payne  — 
Alas,  he  dyed  in  payne  ! 

Shee  had  a  flower,  a  lovely   flower, 

Which  languished  in  a  potte, 
Shee  tho't  it  was  its  nature  to  — 

But  then  you  know  it 's  notte  ! 

Of  course  we  know  it 's  notte  ! 


WOMAN.  47 

She   had   a   byrde,  a  yellow  byrde, 

Life -prisoned   in  a  cayge  ! 
'  T  is  naught,  sayth   shee,  because  you   see 

He  was  born  in  that  same  cayge  — 

Or  caught  at  a  tender  ayge. 

As  if,  forsooth,  when   men  were  slaves, 

It  added  to  their  glee 
To  have  theyre  sires,  and  eke  themselves, 

Born  into   slaveree  ! 

Born  fast  in  slaveree  ! 

But  O  this  mayde  !     This  gentil  mayde  ! 

Shee  wore  upon   her  hedde 
A  hatte  the  ornaments  of  which 

Were  bodies  of  the  dedde  ! 

Just  fragments  of  the  dedde ! 

The  feathers  of  dedde  byrdes  shee  wore. 

Tayles  of  the  slaughtered  beaste. 
Theyre  lyttel  heddes  her  buttons  were  — 

Shee  wore  a  score  at  leaste  ! 

A  score  of  deaths  at  leaste  ! 

O  gentil  mayde  !     0  lovely  mayde ! 

With  mylde  and  tender  eye ! 
Why  is  it  for  youre  pleasuring 

These  lyttel  ones  must  dye  ? 

These  helpless  ones  must  dye  ? 


IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


FEMININE    VANITY. 

Feminine  Vanity  !    0  ye  Gods  !    Hear  to  this  man  ! 
As  if  silk  and  velvet  and  feathers  and  fur 
And  jewels  and  gold  had  been  just  for  her, 
Since  the  world  began  ! 

Where  is  his  memory?     Let  him   look  back  —  all 

of  the  way  ! 

Let  him  study  the  history  of  his  race 
From  the  first  he -savage  that  painted  his  face, 
To  the  dude  of  to-day! 

Vanity  !     Oh  !     Are  the  twists  and  curls, 

The  intricate  patterns  in  red,  black,  and  blue, 
The  wearisome  tortures  of  rich  tattoo, 
Just  made  for  girls  ? 

Is  it  only  the  squaw  who  files  the  teeth, 
And  dangles  the  lip,  and  bores  the  ear, 
And  wears   bracelet   and  necklet  and  anklet  as 
queer 

As  the  bones  beneath  ? 

Look  at  the  soldier,  the  noble,  the  king  ! 
Egypt  or  Greece  or  Rome  discloses 
The  purples  and  perfumes  and  gems  and  roses 
On  a  masculine  thing  ! 


WOMAN.  49 

Look  at  the  men  of  our  own-  dark  ages  ! 
Heroes  too,  in  their  cloth  of  gold, 
With  jewels  as  thick  as  the  cloth  could  hold, 
On  the  knights  and  pages  ! 

We  wear  false  hair  ?     Our  man  looks  big  ! 
But  it 's  not  so  long,  let  me  beg  to  state, 
Since  every  gentleman  shaved  his  pate 
And  wore  a  wig. 

French  heels  ?    Sharp  toes  ?    See  our  feet  defaced  ? 
But  there  was  a  day  when  the  soldier  free 
Tied  the   toe  of  his  shoe  to  the  manly  knee  — 
Yes,  and  even  his  waist ! 

We  pad  and  stuff?  —  our  man  looks  bolder. 

Don't  speak  of  the  time  when  a  bran -filled  bunch 

Made  an  English  gentleman  look  like  Punch  — 

But  feel  of  his  shoulder  ! 

Feminine  Vanity  !  O  ye  Gods  !  Hear  to  these  men  ! 
Vanity  's  wide  as  the  world  is  wide  ! 
Look  at  the  peacock  in  his  pride  — 
Is  it  a  hen  ! 


50  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

FEMALES. 

The  female  fox  she  is  a  fox; 

The  female  whale  a  whale; 
The  female  eagle  holds  her  place 
As  representative  of  race 

As  truly  as  the  male. 

The  mother  hen  doth  scratch  for  her  chicks, 

And  scratch  for  herself  beside  ; 
The  mother  cow  doth  nurse  her  calf, 
Yet  fares  as  well  as  her  other  half 
In  the  pasture  free  and  wide. 

The  female  bird  doth  soar  in  air  ; 

The  female  fish  doth  swim  ; 
The  fleet -foot  mare  upon  the  course 
Doth  hold  her  own  with  the  flying  horse — 

Yea,  and  she  beateth  him  ! 

One  female  in  the  world  we  find 

Telling  a  different  tale. 
It  is  the  female  of  our  race 
Who  holds  a  parasitic  place 

Dependent  on  the  male. 

Not  so,  saith  she,  ye  slander  me  ! 

No  parasite  am  I ! 
I  earn  my  living  as  a  wife  ; 
My  children  take  my  very  life  — 


WOMAN.  51 

Why  should  I  share  in  human  strife  — 
To  plant  and  build  and  buy  ? 

The  human  race  holds  highest  place 

In  all  the  world  so  wide, 
Yet  these  inferior  females  wive, 
And  raise  their  little  ones  alive, 

And  feed  themselves  beside. 

The  race  is  higher  than  the  sex, 
Though  sex  be  fair  and  good  ; 
A  Human   Creature  is  your  state, 
And  to  be  human  is  more  great 
Than  even  womanhood  ! 

The  female  fox  she  is  a  fox ; 

The  female  whale  a  whale  ; 
The  female  eagle  holds  her  place 
As  representative  of  race 

As  truly  as  the  male! 


52  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

UNSEXED. 

It  was  wild   rebellious  drone 
That  loudly   did  complain  ; 
He  wished  he  was  a  worker  bee 
With   all  his  might  and  main. 

"  I  want  to   work,"  the  drone  declared. 
Quoth  they,  "The  thing  you  mean 
Is  that  you   scorn  to  be  a  drone 
And  long  to  be  a  queen. 

"  You  long  to  lay  unnumbered  eggs, 
And   rule  the   waiting  throng ; 
You  long  to  lead  our  summer  flight, 
And  this   is   rankly  wrong." 

Cried  he,  "  My  life  is  pitiful ! 
I  only  eat  and  wed, 
And  in  my  marriage  is  the  end  — 
Thereafter  I  am   dead. 

"  I  would  I   were  the  busy  bee 
That  flits  from  flower  to  flower ; 
I  long  to   share  in  work   and  care 
And  feel  the  worker's  power." 

Quoth   they,  "  The  life  you  dare  to  spurn 
Is   set   before  you   here 
As  your  one  great,  prescribed,  ordained, 
Divinely   ordered  sphere ! 


WOMAN.  S3 

'  Without  your  services  as  drone, 
We   should   not   be  alive  ; 
Your  modest  task,  when   well   fulfilled, 
Preserves  the  busy   hive. 

"  Why  underrate   your   blessed   power  ? 
Why  leave  your  rightful  throne 
To  choose  a  field  of  life  that 's   made 
For   working  bees  alone  ? " 

Cried  he,  "But  it  is  not  enough, 
My  momentary  task  ! 
Let  me  do  that  and  more  beside  — 
To  work  is  all  I  ask!" 

Then  fiercely  rose  the  workers  all, 
For  sorely  were  they  vexed  ; 
"  0  wretch  ! "  they  cried, "  should  this  betide 
You  would  become  unsexed  !  " 

And  yet  he  had   not  sighed   for  eggs, 
Nor  yet  for   royal   mien  ; 
He  longed  to  be  a  worker  bee, 
But  not  to  be  a  queen. 


54  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


THE   HOLY   STOVE. 

0  the  soap -vat  is  a  common  thing! 

The  pickle -tub  is  low! 

The  loom   and  wheel  have  lost  their  grace 
In  falling  from  the  dwelling  place 

To  mills  where  all  may  go  ! 
The  bread -tray  needeth  not  your  love; 

The  wash-tub  wide  doth   roam; 
Even  the  oven   free   may  rove  ; 
But  bow  ye  down  to  the  Holy   Stove, 

The  Altar  of  the  Home  ! 

Before  it  bend  the  worshipers 

And  wreaths  of  parsley  twine, 
Above  it  still  the  incense  curls, 
And   a  passing  train  of  hired  girls 

Do  service  at  the  shrine. 
We  toil  to  keep  the  altar  crowned 

With  dishes  new  and  nice, 
And  Art  and  Love  and  Time  and  Truth 
We  offer  up,  with  Health  and  Youth, 

In  daily  sacrifice. 

Speak  not  to  us  of  a  fairer  faith, 

Of  a  lifetime   free  from  pain  — 
Our  fathers  always  worshiped  here, 
Our  mothers  served  this  altar  drear, 
And  still  we  serve  amain. 


WOMAN.  55 

Our  earliest  dreams   around  it  cling, 

Bright  hopes  that  childhood  sees, 
And   memory  leaves  a  vista  wide 
Where  Mother's  Doughnuts  rank  beside 
The  thought  of  Mother's  Knees. 

The  wood -box  hath  no  sanctity; 

No  glamor  gilds  the  coal ; 
But  the  Cook -Stove  is  a  sacred  thing 
To  which  a  reverent  faith  we  bring 

And  serve  with   heart  and  soul. 
The  Home 's  a  temple  all  divine, 

By  the  Poker  and  the  Hod! 
The  Holy  Stove  is  the  altar  fine  — 
The  wife  the  priestess  at  the  shrine  — 

Now  who  can  be  the  god  ? 


5ft  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


A  BROOD   MARE. 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  phenomenal  improvement  in  horses  dur- 
ing the  last  fifteen  years  is  accompanied  by  the  growing  conviction  that 
good  points  and  a  good  record  are  as  desirable  in  the  dam  as  in  the  sire, 
if  not  more  so. 

I   had   a  quarrel  yesterday, 

A  violent  dispute, 
With   a  man  who  tried  to  sell  to  me 

A  strange  amorphous  brute, 

A  creature  disproportionate, 
A  beast  to  make  you  stare, 

An  undeveloped,xQvergrown, 
Outrageous -looking  mare. 

Her  fore  legs  they  were  weak  and  thin, 
Her  hind  legs  weak  and  fat, 

She  was  heavy  in  the  quarters, 
With  a  narrow  chest  and  flat ; 

And  she  had  managed  to   combine  — 
I'm   sure  I  don't  know  how  — 

The  barrel  of  a  greyhound 
With  the  belly  of  a  cow. 

She  seemed  exceeding  feeble, 

And  he  owned  with   manner  bland 

That  she  walked  a  little,  easily, 
But  wasn't  fit  to  stand. 


WOMAN, 

I   tried  to  mount  the   animal 
To   test   her  on  the   track  ; 
But   he   cried   in    real  anxiety, 
"Get  off!    You'll  strain  her  back!" 

And  then  I  sought  to  harness  her, 
But  he  explained  at  length 

That  any  draught  or  carriage  work 
Was  'quite  beyond  her  strength. 

'  No   use  to   carry  or  to  pull ! 
No  use  upon   the  course ! " 
Said  I,  "  How  can   you   have  the   face 
To   call   that   thing   a   horse  ? " 

Said   he,  indignantly,  "I  don't! 

I  'm   dealing   on  the  square  ; 
I   never  said  it  was  a  horse, 

I  told  you  't  was  a  mare ! 

'  A   mare  was  never  meant  to  race, 

To   carry,  or  to  pull ; 
She   is  meant  for  breeding  only,  so 
Her  place  in  life  is  full." 

Said  I,  "  Do  you  pretend   to  breed 
From   such   a  beast  as  that  ? 

A   mass  of  shapeless  skin  and   bone, 
Or  shapeless  skin  and  fat  ?  " 


58  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Said  he,  "  Her  sire  was  thoroughbred, 
As  fine  as  walked   the  earth, 

And   all  her   colts  receive  from  him 
The  marks  of  noble   birth  ; 

"  And  then  I  mate  her  carefully 

With   horses  fine  and  fit  — 
Mares  do  not  need  to  have  themselves 
The   points   which  they  transmit ! " 

Said   I,  "Do  you  pretend  to  say 
You   can  raise  colts  as  fair 

From  that  fat  cripple  as  you  can 
From  an   able-bodied   mare?" 

Quoth  he,  "I  solemnly  assert, 

Just  as  I  said  before, 
A  mare  that 's  good  for  breeding 

Can  be  good  for  nothing  more  ! " 

Cried  I,  "  One  thing  is  certain  proof ; 

One  thing  I  want  to  see  ; 
Trot  out  the  noble  colts  you  raise 

From  your  anomaly." 

He  looked  a  little  dashed  at  this, 

And  the  poor  mare  hung  her  head  ; 
"  Fact  is,"  said  he,  "  she  's  had  but  one 
And  that  one  —  well,  it's  dead!" 


WOMAN. 


FALSE   PLAY. 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  asked  the  mother  of  her  child, 
And  the  baby  answered,  "No!" 

Great  Love  listened  and  sadly  smiled  ; 

He  knew  the  love  in  the  heart  of  the  child  — 
That  you  could  not  wake  it  so. 

u  Do  not  love  me  ?  "  the  foolish  mother  cried, 

And  the  baby  answered,  "  No  !" 
He  knew  the  worth  of  the  trick  she  tried  — 
Great  Love  listened,  and  grieving,  sighed 
That  the  mother  scorned  him  so. 

"  Oh,  poor  mama  ! "  and  she  played  her  part 

Till  the  baby's  strength  gave  way ; 
He  knew  it  was  false  in  his  inmost  heart, 
But  he  could  not  bear  that  her  tears  should  start, 
So  he  joined  in  the  lying  play. 

"  Then  love  mania  ! "  and  the  soft  lips  crept 

To  the  kiss  that  his  love  should  show  — 

The  mouth  to  speak  while  the  spirit  slept ! 

Great  Love  listened,  and  blushed,  and  wept 
That  they  blasphemed  him  so. 


60  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


TO   THE   YOUNG   WIFE. 

Are  you  content,  you  pretty  three -years'  wife? 
Are  you  content  and  satisfied  to  live 
On  what  your  loving  husband  loves  to  give, 
And  give  to  him  your  life  ? 

Are  you  content  with  work  —  to  toil  alone, 
To  clean  things  dirty  and  to  soil  things  clean, 
To  be  a  kitchen  -  maid  —  be  called  a  queen  — 
Queen  of  a  cook  -  stove  throne  ? 

Are  you  content  to  reign  in  that  small  space  — 
A  wooden  palace  and  a  yard -fenced  land  — 
With  other  queens  abundant  on  each  hand, 
Each   fastened  in  her  place  ? 

Are  you  content  to  rear  your  children  so  ? 

Untaught    yourself,    untrained,    perplexed,    dis- 
tressed, 

Are  you  so  sure  your  way  is  always  best  ? 
That  you  can  always  know  ? 

Have  you  forgotten  how  you  used  to  long 
In  days  of  ardent  girlhood,  to  be  great, 
To  help  the  groaning  world,  to  serve  the  state, 
To  be  so  wise  —  so  strong  ? 


WOMAN.  61 

And  are  you  quite  convinced  this  is  the  way, 
The  only  way  a  woman's  duty  lies  — 
Knowing  all  women  so  have  shut  their  eyes  ? 
Seeing  the  world  to-day? 

Have  you  no  dream  of  life  in  fuller  store  ? 
Of  growing  to  be  more  than  that  you  are  ? 
Doing  the  things  you  now  do  better  far, 
Yet  doing  others  —  more? 

Losing  no  love,  but  finding  as  you  grew 
That  as  you  entered  upon  nobler  life 
You  so  became  a  richer  sweeter  wife, 
A  wiser  mother  too  ? 

What  holds  you  ?    Ah,  my  dear,  it  is  your  throne, 
Your  paltry  queenship  in  that  narrow  place, 
Your  antique  labors,  your  restricted  space, 
Your  working  all  alone  ! 

Be  not  deceived!    'Tis  not  your  wifely  bond 
That  holds  you,  nor  the  mother's  royal  power, 
But  selfish  slavish  service  hour  by  hour  — 
A  life  with  no  beyond  ! 


62  IN   THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

AN    OLD    PROVERB. 

"As  much  pity  to  see  a  woman  weep  as  to  see  a  goose  go  barefoot." 

No  escape,  little  creature  !     The  earth  hath  no  place 
For  the  woman  who  seeketh  to  fly  from  her  race. 
Poor,  ignorant,  timid,  too  helpless  to  roam, 
The  woman  must  bear  what  befalls  her,  at  home. 
Bear  bravely,  bear  dumbly  —  it  is  but  the  same 
That  all  others  endure  who  live  under  the  name  — 
No  escape,  little  creature ! 

No  escape  under  heaven  !    Can  man  treat  you  worse 
After  God  has  laid  on  you  his  infinite  curse  ? 
The  heaviest  burden  of  sorrow  you  win 
Cannot  weigh  with  the  load  of  original  sin  ; 
No  shame  be  too  black  for  the  cowering  face 
Of  her  who  brought  shame  to  the  whole  human  race  ! 
No  escape  under  heaven  ! 

Yet  you  feel,  being  human.    You  shrink  from  the 

pain 

That  each  child,  born  a  woman,  must  suffer  again. 
From  the  strongest  of  bonds  heart  can  feel,  man 

can  shape, 

You  cannot  rebel,  or  appeal,  or  escape. 
You  must  bear  and  endure.     If  the  heart  cannot 


And    the   pain    groweth    bitter  —  too  bitter  —  then 
weep ! 

For  you  feel,  being  human. 


WOMAN.  63 

And  she  wept,  being  woman.    The  numberless  years 
Have  counted  her  burdens  and  counted  her  tears ; 
The  maid  wept  forsaken,  the  mother  forlorn 
For  the  child  that  was  dead,  and  the  child  that 

was  born. 

Wept  for  joy  —  as  a  miracle! — wept  in  her  pain! 
Wept  aloud,  wept  in  secret,  wept  ever  in  vain  ! 
Still  she  weeps,  being  woman. 


THE   CHILD   SPEAKS. 

Get  back  !     Give  me  air  !     Give   me  freedom  arid 

room, 
The   warm  earth  and   bright  water,  the  crowding 

sweet  bloom 

Of  the  flowers,  and  the  measureless  marvelous  sky  — 
All  of  these  all  the  time,  and  a  shelter  close  by 
Where  silence  and  beauty  and  peace  are  my  own 
In  a  chamber  alone. 

Then  bring  me  the  others  !  "  A  child  "  is  a  crime  ; 
It  is  "  children "  who  grow  through  the   beautiful 

time 

Of  their  childhood  up  into  the  age  you  are  in  — 
"  A.  child"  must  needs  suffer  and  sicken  and  sin  — 
The  life  of  a  child  needs  the  life  of  its  kind, 
0  ye  stupid  and  blind  I 


64  IN  THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

Then  the  best  of  your  heart  and  the  best  of  your 

brain  ! 

The  face  of  all  beauty  !     The  soul  without  stain ! 
Your  noblest !     Your  wisest  !     With  us  is  the  place 
To  consecrate  life  to  the  good  of  the  race  ! 
That  our  childhood    may    pass   with  the  best  you 

can  give, 

And  our  manhood  so  live  ! 

The  wisdom  of  years,  the  experience  deep 

That  shall  laugh  with  our  waking  and  watch  with 

our  sleep, 

The  patience  of  age,  the  keen  honor  of  youth, 
To  guide  us  in  doing  and  teach  us  in  truth, 
With  the  garnered  ripe  fruit  of  the  world  at  our  feet, 
Both  the  bitter  and  sweet ! 

What  is  this  that  you  offer  ?     One   man's  narrow 

purse  ! 
One    woman's  strained  life,  and  a  heart  straining 

worse  ! 

Confined  as  in  prisons  —  held  down  as  in  caves  — 

The  teaching  of  tyrants  —  the  service  of  slaves  — 

The  garments  of  falsehood  and  bondage  —  the  weight 

Of  your  own  evil  state. 

And  what  is  this  brought  as  atonement  for  these? 
For  our  blind  misdirection,  our  death  and  disease  ; 
For  the  grief  of  our  childhood,  the  loss  and   the 
wrong ; 


WOMAN.  65 

For  the  shame  and  the  sin  and  the  sorrow  thereof — 
Dare  you  say  it  is  love  ? 

Love  ?  First  give  freedom  —  the  right  of  the  brute  ! 
The  air  with  its  sunshine,  the  earth  with  its  fruit. 
Love?  First  give  wisdom  —  intelligent  care, 
That  shall  help  to  bring  out  all  the  good  that  is  there. 
Love  ?  First  give  justice  !  There's  nothing  above  !  — 
And  then  you  may  love  ! 


MOTHER    TO    CHILD. 

How  best  can  I  serve  thee,  my  child  !     My  child  ! 
Flesh  of  my  flesh  and  dear  heart  of  my  heart! 
Once  thou  wast  within  me  —  I  held  thee  —  I  fed 

thee  — 

By  the  force  of  my  loving  and  longing  I  led  thee  — 
Now  we  are  apart ! 

I  may  blind  thee  with  kisses  and  crush  with  em- 
bracing, 

Thy  warm  mouth  in  my  neck  and  our  arms  inter- 
lacing, 

But  here  in  my  body  my  soul  lives  alone, 

And  thou  answerest  me  from  a  house  of  thine  own  — 
That  house  which  I  builded  ! 

Which  we  builded  together,  thy  father  and  I  — 
In  which  thou  must  live,  0  my  darling,  and  die  ! 


66  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Not  one  stone  can  I  alter,  not  one  atom  relay  — 
Not  to  save  or  defend  thee  or  help  thee  to  stay  — 
That  gift  is  completed  ! 

How  best  can  I  serve  thee  ?     0  child,  if  they  knew 
How  my  heart  aches  with  loving  !     How  deep  and 

how  true, 

How  brave  and  enduring,  how  patient,  how  strong, 

How  longing  for  good  and  how  fearful  of  wrong, 

Is  the  love  of  thy  mother  ! 

Could  I  crown  thee  with  riches !  Surround,  over- 
flow thee 

With  fame  and  with  power  till  the  whole  world 
should  know  thee  ; 

With  wisdom  and  genius  to  hold  the  world  still, 

To  bring  laughter  and  tears,  joy  and  pain,  at  thy  will, 
Still  —  thou  mightst  not  be  happy! 

Such  have  lived  —  and  in  sorrow.     The  greater  the 

mind 

The  wider  and  deeper  the  grief  it  can  find. 
The  richer,  the  gladder,  the  more  thou  canst  feel 
The  keen  stings  that  a  lifetime  is  sure  to  reveal. 
0  my  child  !     Must  thou  suffer  ? 

Is  there  no  way  my  life  can  save  thine  from  a  pain  ? 
Is  the  love  of  a  mother  no  possible  gain  ? 
No  labor  of  Hercules  —  search  for  the  Grail  — 
No  way  for  this  wonderful  love  to  avail  ? 
God  in  Heaven  —  0  teach  me! 


WOMAN.  67 

My  prayer  has  been  answered.    The  pain  thou  must 

bear 
Is  the  pain  of  the  world's  life  which  thy  life  must 

share. 
Thou  art  one  with  the  world  —  though  I  love  thee 

the  best  ; 

And  to  save  thee  from  pain  I  must  save  all  the  rest  — 
Well  — with  God's  help  I'll  do  it! 

Thou  art  one  with  the  rest.    I  must  love  thee  in  them. 
Thou  wilt  s;n  with  the  rest  —  and  thy  mother  must 

stern 
The  world's  sin.    Thou  wilt  weep  —  and  thy  mother 

must  dry 

The  tears  of  the  world  lest  her  darling  should  cry  ! 
I  will  do  it  —  God  helping! 

And  I  stand  not  alone.     I  will  gather  a  band 
Of  all  loving  mothers  from  land  unto  land. 
Our  children  are  part  of  the  world  !  do  ye  hear  ? 
They  are  one  with  the  world  —  we  must  hold  them 
all  dear  ! 

Love  all  for  the  child's  sake  ! 

For  the  sake  of  my  child  I  must  hasten  to  save 
All  the  children  on  earth  from  the  jail  and  the  grave. 
For  so,  and  so  only,  I  lighten  the  share 
Of  the  pain  of  the  world  that  my  darling  must  bear  — 
Even  so,  and  so  only  ! 


08  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

TO   MAN. 

In  dark  and  early  ages,  through  the  primal  forests 

faring, 

Ere  the  soul  came  shining  into  prehistoric  night, 
Two -fold  man  was  equal ;  they  were  comrades  dear 

and  daring, 
Living  wild  and  free  together  in  unreasoning  delight. 

Ere    the    soul    was    born  and   consciousness    came 

slowly, 

Ere  the  soul  was  born,  to  man  and  woman  too, 
Ere  he  found  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  that  awful 

tree  and  holy, 
Ere  he  knew  he  felt,  and  knew  he  knew. 

Then    said    he    to   Pain,  "I   am    wise  now  and  I 

know  you ! 

No  more  will  I  suffer  while  power  and  wisdom  last ! " 
Then  said    he  to  Pleasure,  "  I    am    strong,  and  I 

will  show  you 
That  the  will  of  man  can  seize  you ;  aye,  and  hold 

you  fast ! " 

Food  he  ate  for  pleasure,  and  wine  he  drank  for 

gladness, 
And  woman  ?   Ah,  the    woman  !  the   crown  of  all 

delight !  — 

His  now  —  he  knew  it!     He  was  strong  to  madness 
In  that  early  dawning  after  prehistoric  night. 


WOMAN.  69 

His  —  his  forever  !     That  glory  sweet  and  tender  ! 
Ah,  but  he  would  love  her !     And  she  should  love 

but  him  ! 
He   would    work    and   struggle    for   her,  he   would 

shelter  and  defend  her  — 
She  shpuld  never  leave  him,  never,  till  their  eyes 

in  death  were  dim. 

Close,  close  he  bound  her,  that  she  should  leave 

him  never ; 

Weak  still  he  kept  her,  lest  she  be  strong  to  flee  ; 
And  the  fainting  flame  of  passion   he  kept   alive 

forever 
With  all  the  arts  and  forces  of  earth  and  sky  and  sea. 

And  ah,  the  long  journey  !    The  slow  and  awful  ages 
They  have  labored  up  together,  blind  and  crippled, 

all  astray  ! 
Through   what   a    mighty    volume,   with   a  million 

shameful  pages, 
From  the  freedom  of  the  forest  to  the  prisons  of 

to  -day  ! 

Food  he  ate  for  pleasure,  and  it  slew  him  with 
diseases  ! 

Wine  he  drank  for  gladness,  and  it  led  the  way 
to  crime  ! 

And  woman?  He  will  hold  her  —  he  will  have 
her  when  he  pleases  — 

And  he  never  once  hath  seen  her  since  the  pre- 
historic time  ! 


70  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Gone  the  friend  and  comrade  of  the  day  when  life 

was  younger, 

She  who  rests  and  comforts,  she  who  helps  and  saves  ; 
Still  he  seeks  her  vainly,  with  a  never-dying  hunger  ; 
Alone  heneath  his  tyrants,  alone  above  his  slaves  ! 

Toiler,  bent  and  weary  with  the  load  of  thine  own 

making  ! 
Thou  who  art  sad  and  lonely,  though  lonely  all  in 

vain  ! 
Who    hast   sought   to    conquer   Pleasure  and   have 

her  for  the  taking, 
And  found  that   Pleasure   only   was  another  name 

for  Pain  — 

Nature  hath  reclaimed  thee,  forgiving  dispossession  ! 

God  hath  not  forgotten,  though  man  doth  still  for- 
get! 

The  woman -soul  is  rising,  in  despite  of  thy  trans- 
gression— 

Loose  her  now  —  and  trust  her  !  She  will  love  thee 
yet! 

Love  thee  ?     She   will   love  thee   as   only  freedom 

knoweth  ! 
Love  thee  ?     She   will  love  thee  while  Love  itself 

doth  live  ! 
Fear  not  the  heart  of   woman  !     No  bitterness   it 

showeth  ! 
The  ages  of  her   sorrow  have   but  taught    her    to 

forgive  ! 


WOMAN.  71 


SHE   WHO   IS   TO   COME. 

A  woman  —  in  so  far  as  she  beholdeth 

Her  one  Beloved's  face  : 
A  mother  —  with  a  great  heart  that  enfoldeth 

The  children  of  the  Race  : 
A  body,  free  and  strong,  with  that  high  beauty 

That  comes  of  perfect  use,  is  built  thereof  : 
A  mind  where  Reason  ruleth  over  Duty, 

And  Justice  reigns  with 


A  self  -poised  royal  soul,  brave,  wise,  and  tender, 

No  longer  blind  and  dumb  : 
A  Human  Being,  of  an  unknown  splendor, 

Is  she  who  is  to  corns  ! 


OUR   HUMAN   KIND. 


SIMILAR  CASES. 

There  was  once  a  little  animal, 

No  bigger  than  a  fox, 
And  on  five  toes  he  scampered 

Over  Tertiary  rocks. 
They  called  him  Eohippus, 

And  they  called  him  very  small, 
And  they  thought  him  of  no  value  - 

When  they  thought  of  him  at  all 
For  the  lumpish  Dinoceras 

And  Coryphodon  so  slow 
Were  the  heavy  aristocracy 

In  days  of  long  ago. 

Said  the  little  Eohippus, 
"  I  am  going  to  be  a  horse  ! 
And  on  my  middle  finger-nails 
To  run  my  earthly  course  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  73 

I  'HI  going  to  have  a  flowing  tail ! 

I  'm  going  to  have  a  mane  ! 
I  'm  going  to  stand  fourteen  hands  high 

On  the  psychozoic  plain  ! " 

The  Coryphodon  was  horrified, 

The  Dinoceras  shocked  ; 
And  they  chased  young  Eohippus, 

But  he  skipped  away  and  mocked. 
Then  they  laughed  enormous  laughter, 

And  they  groaned  enormous  groans, 
And  they  bade  young  Eohippus 

Go  view  his  father's  bones. 
Said  they,  "  You  always  were  as  small 

And  mean  as  now  we  see, 
And  therefore  it  is  evident 

That  you  're  always  going  to  be. 
What  ?     Be  a  great,  tall,  handsome  beast, 

With  hoofs  to  gallop  on  ? 
Why!      You'd  have  to  change  your  nature!" 

Said  the  Loxolophodou. 
They  considered  him  disposed  of, 

And  retired  with  gait  serene  — 
That  was  the  way  they  argued 

In  "  the  early  Eocene." 

There  was  once  an  Anthropoidal  Ape, 

Far  smarter  than  the  rest, 
And  everything  that  they  could  do 

He  always  did  the  best ; 


74  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

So  they  naturally  disliked  him, 
And  they  gave  him  shoulders  cool, 

And  when  they  had  to  mention  him 
They  said  he  was  a  fool. 

Cried  this  pretentious  Ape  one  day, 

"  I  'm  going  to  be  a  Man  ! 
And  stand  upright,  and  hunt,  and  fight, 

And  conquer  all  I  can  ! 
I  'in  going  to  cut  down  forest  trees 

To  make  my  houses  higher  ! 
I  'm  going  to  kill  the  Mastodon  ! 

I'm  going  to  make  a  fire!" 

Loud  screamed  the  Anthropoidal  Apes 

With  laughter  wild  and  gay  ; 
They  tried  to  catch  that  boastful  one, 

But  he  always  got  away. 
So  they  yelled  at  him  in  chorus, 

Which  he  minded  not  a  whit ; 
And  the}'  pelted  him  with  cocoanuts, 

Which  didn't  seem  to  hit. 
And  then  they  gave  him  reasons 

Which  they  thought  of  much  avail, 
To  prove  how  his  preposterous 

Attempt  was  sure  to  fail. 
Said  the  sages,  "  In  the  first  place, 

The  thing  cannot  be  done  ! 
And  second,  if  it  could  be, 

It  would  not  be  any  fun! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  75 

And  third,  and  most  conclusive, 

And  admitting  no  reply, 
You  would  have  to  change  your  nature  ! 

We  should  like  to  see  you  try  ! " 
They  chuckled  then  triumphantly, 

These  lean  and  hairy  shapes, 
For  these  things  passed  as  arguments 

With  the  Anthropoidal  Apes. 

There  was  once  a  Neolithic  Man, 

An  enterprising  wight, 
Who  made  his  chopping  implements 

Unusually  bright, 
Unusually  clever  he, 

Unusually  brave, 
And  he  drew  delightful  Mammoths 

On  the  borders  of  his  cave. 
To  his  Neolithic  neighbors, 

Who  were  startled  and  surprised, 
Said  he,  ">My  friends,  in  course  of  time, 

We  shall  be  civilized  ! 
We  are  going  to  live  iu  cities  ! 

We  are  going  to  fight  in  wars  ! 
We  are  going  to  eat  three  times  a  day 

Without  the  natural  cause  ! 
We  are  going  to  turn  life  upside  down 

About  a  thing  called  gold  ! 
We  are  going  to  want  the  earth,  and  take 

As  much  as  we  can  hold  ! 


76  IN   THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

We  are  going  to  wear  great  piles  of  stuff 

Outside  our  proper  skins  ! 
We  are  going  to  have  Diseases  ! 

And  Accomplishments  ! !    And  Sins  !  ! !  " 

Then  they  all  rose  up  in  fury 

Against  their  boastful  friend, 
For  prehistoric  patience 

Cometh  quickly  to  an  end. 
Said  one,  "  This  is  chimerical ! 

Utopian  !     Absurd  !  " 
Said  another,  "  What  a  stupid  life  1 

Too  dull,  upon  my  word  ! " 
Cried  all,  "  Before  such  things  can  come, 

You  idiotic  child, 
You  must  alter  Human  Nature  I " 

And  they  all  sat  back  and  smiled. 
Thought  they,  "  An  answer  to  that  last 

It  will  be  hard  to  find  ! " 
It  was  a  clinching  argument 

To  the  Neolithic  Mind  ! 


A   CONSERVATIVE. 

The  garden  beds  I  wandered   by 
One  bright  and  cheerful  morn, 

When   I  found  a  new-fledged   butterfly 
A -sitting  on  a  thorn, 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  77 

A  black  and  crimson  butterfly, 
All  doleful   and  forlorn. 

I  thought  that  life  could   have   no  sting 

To  infant  butterflies, 
So  I  gazed   on   this  unhappy  thing 

With   wonder  and   surprise, 
While  sadly  with   his  waving  wing 

He  wiped   his  weeping  eyes. 

Said  I,  "  What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Why  weepest  thou  so  sore  ? 
With  garden   fair  and  sunlight  free 

And  flowers  in  goodly   store  — " 
But  he  only  turned  away  from   me 

And  burst  into  a  roar. 

Cried  he,  "  My   legs   are  thin  and  few 
Where  once  I  had  a  swarm  ! 

Soft  fuzzy  fur  —  a  joy  to  view  — 
Once  kept   my   body   warm ! 

Before  these  flapping  wing -things  grew, 
To  hamper  and  deform  ! " 

At  that  outrageous  bug  I  shot 

The  fury  of  mine  eye ; 
Said  I,  in  scorn  all  burning  hot, 

In   rage  and  anger  high, 
"  You  ignominious  idiot ! 

Those  wings  are  made  to  fly  I " 


78  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

"  I  do  not  want  to  fly,"  said   he, 

"  I   only   want  to   squirm  !  " 
And  he  drooped   his  wings  dejectedly, 

But  still  his  voice   was  firm  ; 
"  I  do  not  want  to  be  a  fly  ! 
I   want  to  be  a  worm  I " 

0  yesterday  of  unknown  lack  ! 

To-day  of  unknown  bliss! 

1  left  my  fool  in  red  and  black, 

The  last  I  saw  was  this, 
The  creature  madly  climbing  back 
Into   his  chrysalis. 


THE   SURVIVAL   OF   THE   FITTEST 

In  northern  zones  the  ranging  bear 
Protects  himself  with  fat  and  hair. 
Where  snow  is  deep,  and  ice  is  stark, 
And  half  the  year  is  cold  and  dark, 
He  still  survives  a  clime  like  that 
By  growing  fur,  by  growing  fat. 
These  traits,  0  Bear,  which  thou  transmittest, 
Prove  the  survival  of  the  fittest ! 

To  polar  regions,  waste  and  wan, 
Comes  the  encroaching  race  of  man  ; 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  79 

A  puny  feeble  little  lubber  — 

He  had  no  fur,  he  had  no  blubber. 

The  scornful  bear  sat  down  at  ease 

To  see  the  stranger  starve  and  freeze  ; 

But  lo  !  the  stranger  slew  the  bear, 

And  ate  his  fat,  and  wore  his  hair  ! 

These  deeds,  0  Man,  which  thou  committest, 

Prove  the  survival  of  the  fittest ! 

In  modern  times  the  millionaire 
Protects  himself  as  did  the  bear. 
Where  Poverty  and  Hunger  are, 
He  counts  his  bullion  by  the  car. 
Where  thousands  suffer,  still  he  thrives, 
And  after  death  his  will  survives. 
The  wealth,  0  Croesus,  thou  transmittest 
Proves  the  survival  of  the  fittest ! 

But  lo  !  some  people,  odd  and  funny, 
Some  men  without  a  cent  of  money, 
The  simple  common  Human  Race, 
Chose  to  improve  their  dwelling-place. 
They  had  no  use  for  millionaires  ; 
They  calmly  said  the  world  was  theirs  ; 
They  were  so  wise  —  so  strong  —  so  many  — 
The  millionaire  ?     There  was  n't  any  ! 
These  deeds,  O  Man,  which  thou  committest, 
Prove  the  survival  of  the  fittest ! 


80  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 


AN   OBSTACLE. 

I  was  climbing  up  a  mountain -path 

With   many  things  to  do, 
Important  business  of  my  own, 

And  other  people's  too, 
When  I  ran  against  a  Prejudice 

That  quite  cut  off  the  view. 

My  work  was  such  as  could  not  wait, 
My  path  quite  clearly  showed, 

My  strength   and  time   were  limited, 
I  carried  quite  a  load, 

And  there  that  hulking  Prejudice 
Sat  all  across  the  road. 

So  I  spoke  to  him  politely, 
For  he  was  huge  and  high, 

And  begged   that  he   would  move  a  bit 
And  let  me  travel  by  — 

He  smiled,  but  as  for  moving !  — 
He  didn't  even  try. 

And  then  I  reasoned  quietly 

With  that  colossal  mule ; 
My  time  was  short  —  no  other  path  — 

The  mountain  winds  were  cool  — 
I  argued  like  a  Solomon, 

He  sat  there  like  a  fool. 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  81 

Then  I  flew  into  a  passion, 

I  danced  and  howled  and  swore, 

I  pelted  and  belabored  him 
Till  I  was  stiff  and  sore  ; 

He  got  as  mad  as  I  did  — 
But  he  sat  there  as  before. 

And   then  I  begged   him  on   my   knees  — 

I  might  be  kneeling  still 
If  so  I   hoped  to   move  that   mass 

Of  obdurate  ill-will  — 
As  well  invite  the   monument 

To  vacate  Bunker  Hill  ! 

So  I  sat  before  him  helpless, 

In  an   ecstasy   of  woe  — 
The  mountain   mists  were  rising  fast, 

The   sun  was   sinking  slow  — 
When   a  sudden   inspiration  came, 

As  sudden   winds  do  blow. 

I   took  my   hat,  I  took  my  stick, 

My  load   I  settled  fair, 
I  approached  that  awful  incubus 

With   an  absent-minded   air  — 
And   I  walked  directly  through   him, 

As  if  he  was  n't  there  ! 


82  IN   THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


WHAT'S   THAT? 

I  met  a  little  person  on  my  land, 

A -fishing  in  the  waters  of  my  stream; 

He  seemed  a  man,  yet  could  not  understand 
Things  that  to  most  men  very  simple  seem. 

"Get  off!"  said  I ;  "this  land  is  mine,  my  friend  !" 
"  Get  out ! "  said  I ;  "  this  brook  belongs  to  me  ! 
I  own  the  land,  and  you  must  make  an  end 
Of  fishing  here  so  free." 

"  I  own  this  place,  the  land  and  water  too  ! 

You  have  no  right  to  be  here,  that  is  flat ! 
Get  off  it !     That  is  all  I  ask  of  you  !  — " 
"Own  it?"  said  he;  "what's  that?" 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  said  I,  "  why  that  is  common  sense  ! 

I  own  the  water  and  the  fishing  right ; 
I  own  the  land  from  here  to  yonder  fence  ; 

Get  off,  my  friend,  or  fight ! " 

He  looked  at  the  clear  stream  so  neatly  kept ; 

He  looked  at  teeming  vine  and  laden  tree, 
And  wealthy  fields  of  grain  that  stirred  and  slept  — 
"I  see!"  he  cried,  "I  see! 

"  You  mean  you  cut  the  wood  and  plowed  the  field, 
From  your  hard  labor  all  this  beauty  grew, 

To  you  is  due  the  richness  of  the  yield  — 
You  have  some  claim,  'tis  true." 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  83 

"  Not  so,"  said  I,  with  manner  very  cool, 

And  tossed  my  purse  into  the  air  and  caught  it ; 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  laborer,  you  fool  ? 
It 's  mine  because  I  bought  it ! " 

Again  he  looked  as  if  I  talked  in  Greek, 

Again  he  scratched  his  head  and  twirled  his  hat, 
Before  he  mustered  wit  enough  to  speak  — 
"Bought  it?"  said  he,  "what's  that?" 

And  then  he  said  again,  "  I  see  !  I  see  ! 

You  mean  that  some  men  toiled  with  plows  and 

hoes, 
And  while  those  worked  for  you  you  toiled  with  glee 

At  other  work  for  those." 

"  Not  so  ! "  said  I,  getting  a  little  hot, 

Thinking  the  man  a  fool  as  well  as  funny, 

"  I  'm  not  a  workingman,  you  idiot, 
I  bought  it  with  my  money  !  " 

And  still  that  creature  stared  and  dropped  his  jaw, 
Till  I  could  have  destroyed  him  where  he  sat  — 

"  Money,"  said  I,  "  money,  and  moneyed  law!" 
"  Money  ?  "  said  he,  "  what 's  that  ?  " 


84  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

CHRISTIAN   VIRTUES. 

Oh,  dear! 

The  Christian  virtues  will  disappear ! 
Nowhere  on  land   or  sea 
Will  be  room   for  charity  ! 
Nowhere,  in  field  or  city, 
A   person   to   help  or  pity  ! 
Better  for  them,  no  doubt, 
Not  to  need  helping  out 
Of  their  old  miry  ditch. 
But  alas   for  us,  the  rich  ! 
For  we  shall  lose,  you  see, 
Our  boasted  charity  !  — 
Lose  all  the  pride  and  joy 
Of  giving  the  poor  employ, 
And  money,  and  food,  and  love, 
(And  making  stock  thereof!) 
Our  Christian  virtues  are  gone, 
With  nothing  to  practice  on  ! 

It  don't  hurt  them  a  bit, 
For  they  [can't  practice  it ; 
But  it's  our  great  joy  and  pride  — 
What  virtue  have  we  beside  ? 
We  believe,  as  sure  as  we  live, 
That  it  is  more  blessed  to  give 
Than  to   want,  and   waste,  and   grieve, 
And  occasionally  [receive  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  85 

And   here   are  the  people  pressing 

To  rob   us   of  our  pet  blessing ! 

No  chance   to   endow   or  bedizen 

A  hospital,  school,  or  prison, 

And  leave  our  own  proud   name 

To  Gratitude  and   Fame  ! 

No  chance  to   do  one  good   deed, 

To  give   what  we  do  not  need 

To  leave  what  we   cannot  use 

To  those   whom   we  deign  to  choose  ! 

When   none  want  broken   meat, 

How  shall  our  cake  be  sweet  ? 

When   none  want  flannels  and  coals, 

How  shall  we  save  our  souls  ? 

Oh,  dear  !     Oh,  dear  ! 

The  Christian  virtues  will  disappear  ! 

The  poor  have  their  virtues  rude  — 

Meekness  and  gratitude, 

Endurance,  and  respect 

For  us,  the  world's  elect, 

Economy,  self-denial, 

Patience  in   every  trial, 

Self-sacrifice,  self-restraint  — 

Virtues  enough  for  a  saint ! 

Virtues  enough  to  bear 

All  this  life's  sorrow  and  care  ! 

Virtues  by  which  to  rise 

To  a  front  seat  in  the  skies  ! 


IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

How  can   they  turn   from   this 
To   common   earthly    bliss  — 
Mere  clothes,  and   food,  and  drink, 
And   leisure  to   read  and  think, 
And  art,  and  beauty,  and   ease  — 
There   is   no   crown   for  these  ! 
True,  if  their  gratitude 
Were   not  for  fire  and   food, 
They   might  still  learn  to  bless 
The   Lord  for  their  happiness  ! 
And,  instead  of  respect  for  wealth, 
Might  learn  from  beauty,  and   health, 
And  freedom  in  power  and  pelf, 
Each  man  to  respect  himself! 
And,  instead  of  scraping  and  saving, 
Might  learn    from   using   and   having 
That  man's  life  should  be  spent 
In  a  grand  development ! 
But  this  is  petty  and   small  — 
These  are  not  virtues  at  all  — 
They  do  not  look  as  they  should  — 
They  don't  do  us  any  good  ! 
Oh,  dear!     Oh,  dear!     Oh,  dear! 
The  Christian  virtues  will  disappear  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  87 

WEDDED    BLISS. 

"  O  come  and  be  my  mate  !  "  said  the  Eagle  to  the 

Hen; 
"  I  love  to  soar,  but  then 

I  want  my  mate  to  rest 

Forever  in  the  nest !  " 

Said  the  Hen,  "  I  cannot  fly, 

I  have  no  wish  to  try, 

But  I  joy  to  see  tny  mate  careering  through  the  sky  !" 
They  wed,  and  cried,  "Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own!" 
And  the  Hen  sat,  the  Eagle  soared,  alone. 

"  0  come  and  be  my  mate  ! "  said  the  Lion  to  the 

Sheep  ; 

"  My  love  for  you  is  deep  ! 
I  slay,  a  Lion  should, 
But  you  are  mild  and  good  ! " 
"Said  the  Sheep,  "I  do  no  ill  — 

Could  not,  had  I  the  will  — 

But  I  joy  to  see  my  mate  pursue,  devour,  and  kill." 
They  wed,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own  !  " 
And  the  Sheep  browsed,  the  Lion  prowled,  alone. 

"  0  come  and  be  my  mate  ! "  said  the  Salmon  to  the 

Clam  ; 

"  You  are  not  wise,  but  I  am, 
I  know  sea  and  stream  as  well, 
You  know  nothing  but  your  shell." 


88  IN   THIS   OUR    WORLD. 

Said^the  Clam,  "I'm  slow  of  motion, 
But  my  love  is  all  devotion, 
And  I  joy  to  have  my  mate  traverse  lake  and  stream 

and  ocean  ! 

They  wed,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  this  is  Love,  my  own  !  " 
And  the  Clam  sucked,  the  Salmon  swam,  alone. 


THE   SWEET   USES   OF   ADVERSITY. 

In  Norway  fiords,  in  summer  time, 

The  Norway  birch  is  fair ; 

The  white  trunks  shine,  the  green  leaves  twine, 
The  whole  tree  groweth  tall  and  fine, 

For  all  it  wants  is  there  — 

Water  and  warmth  and  air  — 
Full  fed  in  all  its  nature  needs,  and  showing 
That  nature  in  perfection  by  its  growing. 

But  follow  the  persistent  tree 

To  the  limit  of  endless  snow  — 
There  you  may  see  what  a  birch  can  be  ! 
The  product  showeth  plain  and  free 

How  nobly  plants  can  grow 

With  nine  months  winter  slow. 
'Tis  fitted  to  survive  in  that  position  — 
Developed  by  the  force  of  bad  condition. 


OUR  HUMAN   KIND.  89 

See  now  what  life  the  tree  doth  keep  — 

Branchless,  three -leaved,  and  tough  — 
In  June  the  leaf-buds  peep,  flowers  in  July  dare  creep 
To  bloom,  the  fruit  in  August,  and   then  sleep. 
Strong  is  the  tree  and  rough, 
It  lives,  and  that's  enough. 

"Dog's -ear"  the  name  the  peasants  call  it  by  — 

A  Norway  birch  —  and  less  than  one  inch  high! 

***** 

That  silver  monarch  of  the  summer  wood, 
Tall,  straight,  and  lovely,  rich  in  all  things  good, 
Knew  not  in  his  perversity 
The  sweeter  uses  of  adversity  ! 


A   HOPE. 

Are  you  tired,  patient  miner  ? 

Digging  slowly  in  the  dark 
With  your  tiny  pick  and  shovel 

At  the    wall  of  granite   stark  — 

The   awful  wall  of  ignorance 

The  iron  wall  of  sin, 
The   mountain  weight  that  crowds  you  down 

And  holds  you  darkly  in  ? 


90  IN   THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

Does  your  gain  seem  less  than  nothing - 
All  in  vain  the  work  you  do  — 

While  you  can't  get  out  as  you  got  in, 
And  yet  cannot  get  through  ? 

Then  listen  to   a  word  of  hope  — 

'T  is   not  about  the  sky  — 
'T  is  not  to   bid  you  bear  all   this 

For  a  ghostly  by  and  by  — 

'T  is  to  tell  you  there  is  help  at -hand, 
While  there  alone  you  bow  ; 

That  the  daylight  clear  is  coming  near- 
Yes,  it  is  coming  now  ! 

Brave  digger  in  your  narrow  hole 
In   that  great  wall  of  stone  — 

Be  of  good  cheer — the  end  is  near  — 
You  have  not  worked  alone  ! 

Listen  !     Before  —  behind  you  — 

Above  —  below  —  around  — 
A    million   miners  rend   the  rock 

With  rolling  waves  of  sound  ! 

A  million  hands  are  tearing  fast  — 
The  rock  is  growing  thin  — 

And  soon  the  human  heart  shall  range 
Beyond  the  walls  of  sin  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  91 


THE   AMCEBOID   CELL. 

Said  the   Specialized  Cell  to  the  Amoeboid   Cell, 
Why  don't  you  develop  like   me  ? 
Just  combine  with  the  others, 
Unite  with  your  brothers, 
And  grow  to  a  thing  you  can   see  ! 
An  organized   creature  like   me ! 

Said  the  Amoeboid   Cell  to   the   Specialized  Cell, 
But  where  would  my  liberty  be  ? 
If  I  'm  one  with   a  class, 
I  should  lose  in  the   mass 
All   my   Individualitee  ! 
And  that  is   a  horror  to   me  ! 

Said  the  Specialized  Cell  to  the  Amoeboid  Cell, 
What  good   does  it  do  you  to  -  day  ? 

You  're  amorphous  and  small, 

You  've  no  organs  at  all, 
You  can't  even  get  out  of  the   way  ! 
You   don't  half  understand  what  I  say  ! 

Said  the  Amoeboid  Cell  to  the  Specialized  Cell, 
But  I  'm   independent  and   free  ! 

I  can  float  as  I  please 

In  these  populous   seas, 
I  'm  not  fastened  to  anybodee  ! 
I  have  personal  freedom,  you  see ! 


92  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

And    when    I   want  organs  and  members  and  such 
I  project  them  —  an  arm  or   a  wing  ; 
I  can   change   as  I   will, 
But  you   have   to  keep   still  — 
Just  a  part  of  the   mass   where  you   cling ! 
You   never  can  be  but  one  thing! 

Suid  the  Specialized  Cell  to  the  Amoeboid  Cell, 
What  you   say   is   undoubtedly  true, 

But  I'd  rather  be  part 

Of  a  thing   with   a  heart 
Than   the  whole  of  a   creature  like  you  ! 
A  memberless  morsel  like  you ! 

You  say  you're  immortal  and  separate  and  free  — 
Yet  you  've  died  by  the  billion  before ; 
Just  a  speck  in  the  slime 
At  the  birthday  of  time  — 
And  you  never  can  be  any  more ! 
As  you  are  you  've  no  future  in  store ! 

You  say  you  can   be   many   things  in   yourself — 
Yet  you're  all  just  alike  to  the  end! 
I   am   part  of  a   whole  — 
Of  a  thing  with  a  soul  — 
And  the  whole  is  the  unit,  my  friend  ! 
But  that  you   can   scarce  comprehend  ! 

You  are  only  yourself — just  a  series  of  ones  ; 
You  can  only  say  "I" — never  "we"; 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  93 

All  of  us  are  combined 

In  a  creature  with   mind, 
And  we  are  the  creature  you  see  ! 
And    the  creature  feeds  us  —  which  is  me! 

And   being  combined   in    a   body  like  that 
It  can    wisely   provide   us   with    food  ; 

And  we  vary  and  change 

In  a  limitless   range  — 
We  are  specialized  now,  for  our  good  ! 
And   we  each  do  our  work  —  as  we  should! 

What  protection  have  you  from  the  chances  of  Fate  ? 

What  provision  have  you  for  the  morrow  ? 
You  get  food   when  it  drops 
And  you  die  when   it  stops  ! 

You  can't  give  or  take,  lend  or  borrow  ! 

You  helpless  free -agent  of  sorrow! 

Just  then  camera  frost  and  the  Amoeboid  Cell 
Died   out  by  the  billion   again  ; 

But  the  Specialized  Cell 

In  the  body  felt  well 
And  rejoiced   in   his  place  in  the   brain ! 
The  dead  level  of  life  with  a  brain  ! 


94  IN  THIS   OUR    WORLD. 


THE  CART  BEFORE  THE  HORSE. 

Our  business  system  has  its  base 

On  one  small  thought  that 's  out  of  place  ; 

The  merest  trifle  —  nothing  much,  of  course  — 
The  truth  is  there  —  who  says  it's  not?  — 
Only  —  the  trouble  is  —  you've  got 
The  cart  before  the  horse  ! 

You  say  unless  a  man  shall  work 
Right  earnestly,  and  never  shirk, 

He  may  not  eat.    Now  look  —  the  change  is  smallj 
And  yet  the  truth  is  plain  to  see  — 
Unless  man  eats,  and  frequently, 
He  cannot  work  at  all ! 

And  which  comes  first?   Why  that  is  plain, 
The  man  comes  first.     And,  look  again  — 

A  baby  !    with  an  appetite  to  fit ! 
You  have  to  feed  him  years  and  years, 
And  train  him  up  with  toil  and  tears, 
Before  he  works  a  bit ! 

So  let  us  change  our  old  ideas, 

And  learn  with  these  advancing  years 

To  give  the  oats  before  we  ask  for  speed ; 
Not  set  the  hungry  horse  to  run, 
And  tell  him  when  the  race  is  done 
That  he  shall  have  his  feed  I 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  95 


"  THE  POOR  YE  HAVE  ALWAYS  WITH  YOU." 

The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you,  therefore  why 
Seek  to  improve  a  lot  ordained  of  God  — 
Dare  to  rebel  beneath  his  chastening  rod  — 
Question  the  law  on  high  ? 

The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you  —  plain  to  see 
Is  this  thing  so  far  —  stated  by  our  Lord  — 
Proved  by  the  fact  and  also  by  his  Word, 
So  it  must  surely  be  ! 

Yet  wait  —  "have  always"  is  the  present  tense  — 
He  said  they  had  them  always,  and  they  had  ; 
Must  we  therefore  believe  a  thing  so  bad 

Shall  always  crush  us  with  its  weight  immense  ? 

"  You  always  have  the  headache  ! "  I  complain  — 
'Tis  not  prediction  that  you  always  will, 
Nor  yet  a  lasting  curse  to  say,  worse  still, 
That  you  must  always  bear  that  pain. 

The  poor  we  have  had  with  us  in  full  store 
From  senseless  age  to  age.     Let  man  to-day 
Rise  up  and  put  this  human  shame  away  — 
Let  us  have  poor  no  more ! 


96  IN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


MR.   ROCKEFELLER'S   PRAYER. 

The  wealthy  Mr.  Rockefeller  is  reported  to  have  said  that  his  income 
was  so  much  in  excess  of  bis  means  of  spending  it  that  he  had  to  kneel 
down  every  day  and  ask  for  Divine  guidance  to  get  rid  of  it. 

By  his  bedside,  bowed  in  prayer, 
Kneeleth  the  multi-millionaire  — 
Rockefeller,  the  millionaire. 

He  that  believeth  !  He  that  prays ! 
Asking  the  Lord  to  show  him  ways 
To  spend  his  gold  —  to  Him  the  praise  ! 

For  it  pileth  up  and  it  lieth  loose  — 

Surplus  gold  beyond  his  use 

From  the  virgin's  lamp  and  the  widow's  cruse. 

"  Teach  me  Lord  how  I  may  spend 

This  gold  of  mine  that  hath  no  end  — 

Shall  I  buy  ?    Buy  what  ?    Shall  I  give  ?  Or  lend  ?  " 

Answers  the  Lord  of  spirit  pure 
Out  of  the  word  that  shall  endure  — 
"  Sell  all  thou  hast  and  give  the  poor  !  " 

But  this  man  that  hath  lain  strong  hand 
On  the  people's  oil,  on  the  people's  land, 
Wealth -blinded  —  can  he  understand? 

We  give  him  his  wealth,  whoever  we  be, 
We  pay  his  price  in  this  land  of  the  free, 
And  he  selleth  for  less  across  the  sea  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  97 

They  pay  less  and  we  pay  more, 

Helpless  all  on  either  shore, 

And  still  upswelleth  his  mighty  store. 

It  swelleth  vast  and  it  weigheth  sore, 
It  rolleth  and  doubleth  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  so  he  prayeth  —  listen  once  morel 

"  Teach  me,  Lord,  what  I  must  do 
To  spend  my  gold  and  pleasure  you  — 
To  hold  the  earth,  and  heaven  too!" 

Answers  the  Lord  of  pain  so  free  — 

The  Lord  of  love  and  poverty  — 

"  Take  up  thy  cross  and  follow  me  ! " 

While  his  unspent  gold  doth  vex  his  head, 
While  a  million  children  cry  for  bread, 
How  shall  he  hear  what  the  Lord  hath  said  ? 

In  the  name  of  the  hungry  left  unfed, 
Or  the  sick  and  in  prison  unvisited, 
Listen  to  what  the  Lord  hath  said  ! 

His  Heaven  is  not  reached  by  sin, 

The  meek  and  the  poor  its  crown  may  win, 

But  the  rich  shall  hardly  enter  in  ! 

Pray,  thou  rich  man  !     Pray  again  ! 
To  the  Lord  of  poverty  and  pain  ; 
Pray  and  do  —  his  Word  is  plain! 


98  JN  THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


THE   OLD   TIME   WAIL. 

An  Associated  Press  dispatch  describes  the  utterance  of  a  Farmers' 
Alliance  meeting  in  Kansas  as  consisting  mostly  of  "  the  old  time  wail 
of  distress." 

Still  Dives  hath  no  peace.     Broken  his  slumber, 
His  feasts  are  troubled  and  his  pleasures  fail  — 
For  still  he  hears  from  voices  without  number 
The  same  old  wail. 

They  gather  yet  in  field  and  town  and  city  — 

The  people  —  discontented  —  bitter  —  pale  — 
And  murmur  of  oppression,  pain,  and  pity  — 
The  old  time  wail. 

And  weary  Dives,  jaded  in  his  pleasures, 

Finding  the  endless  clamor  tiresome  —  stale  — 
Would  gladly  give  a  part  of  his  wide  treasures 
To  quiet  that  old  wail. 

Old  ?     Yes,  as  old  as  Egypt.     Sounding  lowly 

From  naked  millions,  in  the  desert  hid, 
Starving  and  bleeding  while  they  builded,  slowly, 
The  Pharaohs'  pyramid. 

As  old  as  Rome.     That  endless  empire's  minions 

Raised  ever  and  again  the  same  dull  cry ; 
And  even  Caesar's  eagle  bent  his  pinions 
While  it  disturbed  the  sky. 

As  old  as  the  Dark  Ages.     The  lean  peasant, 
Numerous,  patient,  still  as  time  went  by 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  99 

Made  his  lord's  pastimes  something  less  than  pleasant 
With  that  unceasing  cry. 

It  grew  in  volume  down  the  crowding  ages 

Unheeded  still,  and  unappeased,  it  swelled. 
And   now  it  pleads  in   vain,  and  now  it  rages  — 
The  answer  still  withheld. 

A  century   ago  it  shrieked   and  clamored 

Till  trembled  emperors  and  kings  grew  pale ; 
At  gates  of  palaces  it  roared  and  hammered  — 
The   same  old   wail. 

It  got  no  final  answer,  though   its  passion 

Altered  the  face  of  Europe,  monarchs   slew ; 
But  ere  it  sank  to  silence,  in  some  fashion 
Others  were  wailing,  too. 

And  now  in  broad  America  we  hear  it  — 

From  crowded  street,  from  boundless  hill  and  vale. 
Hear,  Dives  !     Have  ye  not  some  cause  to  fear  it  — 
This  old  time  wail? 

Louder,  my  brother !     Let  us  wail  no  longer 

Like  those  past  sufferers  whose  hearts  did  break — 
We  are  a  wiser  race,  a  braver,  stronger  — 
Let  us  not  ask,  but  take  ! 

So  Dives  shall  have  no  distress  soever, 

No  sound  of  anguished   voice   by   land   or   sea ; 
The  old  time  wail  shall  so  be  stilled  forever, 
And  Dives  shall  not  be  ! 


100  IN   THIS  OUR    WORLD. 


POOR   HUMAN   NATURE. 

I  saw  a  meager,   melancholy   cow, 
Blessed  with  a  starveling  calf  that  sucked  in  vain  ; 

Eftsoon  he  died.     I  asked   the   mother  how — ? 
Quoth   she,   "  Of  every  four  there   dieth  twain  ! " 
Poor  bovine   nature  ! 

I  saw  a  sickly  horse  of  shambling  gait, 
Ugly  and  wicked,  weak  in  leg  and  back, 

Useless  in  all  ways,  in  a  wretched  state  — 

"  We  're  all  poor  creatures  !  "  said  the  sorry  hack. 
Poor  equine  nature  ! 

I   saw   a  slow  cat  crawling   on  the   ground, 
Weak,  clumsy,  inefficient,  full  of  fears, 

The  mice  escaping  from  her  aimless  bound  — 
Moaned  she,  "  This  truly  is  a  vale  of  tears  ! " 
Poor  feline  nature ! 

Then  did  I  glory  in  my   noble   race 

Healthful  and  beautiful,  alert  and  strong, 

Rejoicing  that  we  held  a  higher  place 

And  need  not  add  to  theirs  our  mournful  song  — 
Poor  human  nature  ! 


OUR   HUMAN  KIND.  101 


CHARITY. 

Came  two  young  children  to  their  mother's  shelf 

(One  was  quite  little,  and   the  other  big), 
And  each   in   freedom  calmly  helped   himself  — 
(One  was  a  pig). 

The  food  was  free  and   plenty  for  them  both, 

But  one  was   rather  dull  and  very  small, 
So  the  big  smarter  brother,  nothing  loath, 
He  took  it  all. 

At  which  the  little  fellow  raised  a  yell 

Which   tired  the  other's  more  esthetic  ears  — 
He  gave  him   here  a  crust  and  there  a  shell 
To  stop  his  tears. 

He  gave  with  pride,  in  manner  calm  and  bland, 

Finding  the  other's  hunger  a  delight ; 
He  gave   with   piety  —  his  full  left  hand 
Hid   from  his  right. 

He  gave  and   gave  —  O  blessed  Charity! 

How  sweet  and  beautiful  a  thing  it  is  ! 
How  fine  to  see  that  big  boy  giving  free 
What  is  not  his  ! 


102  IN  THIS   OUR   WORLD. 


DIVISION   OF   PROPERTY. 

Some  sailors  were  starving  at  sea 
On  a  raft  where  they  happened  to  be, 
When   one  of  the  crew 
Who   was  hidden  from  view 
Was   found  to  be  feasting  most  free. 

Then   they  cursed  him  in  language  profane, 
Because  there  on  the  pitiless  main 

While  the  others  did  starve 

He  could  ladle  and  carve, 
Eating  food   which  they  could  not  obtain. 

But,  said  he,  't  is   my  own  little  store  ! 

To  feed  all  of  you  would  take  more  ! 
If  I  shared  't  would  be  found 
That  it  would  not  go  round  — 
if  And  yon  nl]  wo"1d  ptarveonas  before  ! 

ryj-4  A-/  V™  would  only__p_rolong  your  distress 
i  \3l  ,JO   To  distribute  this  one  little   mess  ! 

The  supply  is  so  small 

I  had  best  eat  it  all  — 
For  me  it  will  comfort  and  bless  ! 

This   reasoning   sounded  most  fair, 
But  the   men  had  large  appetites  there, 
And  while  he  explained 
They  ate  all  that  remained  — 
Forgetting  to  leave  out  his  share  ! 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  103 


THE   DEAD   LEVEL. 

There  is  a  fear  among  us  as  we  strive, 

As  we  succeed  or  fail,  or  starve  or  revel, 
That  there  will  be  no  pleasure  left  alive 
When  we  in  peace  and  joy  at  last  arrive 
At  one  dead  level. 

And  still  the  strangest  part  of  this  strange  fear 

Is  that  it  is  not  for  ourselves  we  fear  it. 
We  wish  to  rise  and  gain  —  we  look  ahead 
To  pleasant  years  of  peace  ere  we  are  dead  — 
We  wish  that  peace,  but  wish  no  other  near  it ! 

Say,  does  it  spoil  your  pleasure  in  a  town 

To  have  your  neighbors'  gardens  full  of  roses  ? 
Is  your  house  dearer  when  its  eye  looks  down 
On  evil  smelling  shanties  rough  and  brown  — 
Is  your  nose  safer  than  your  neighbor's  nose  is  ? 

Are  you  unhappy  at  some  noble  fete 

To  see  the  whole  bright  throng  in  radiant  dresses  ? 
Is  your  State  safer  when  each  other  State 
That  borders  it  is  full  of  want  and  hate  ? 

Peace  must  be  peace  to  all  before  it  blesses. 

Is  knowledge  sweeter  when  it  is  penned  in 

By  ignorance  that  does  not  know  its  master  ? 
Is  goodness  easier  when  plenteous  sin 
Surrounds  it  ?     And  can  you  not  win 

Joy  for  yourself  without  your  friend's  disaster  ? 


104  IN   THIS  OUR    WORLD. 

O  foolish  children  !     With  more  foolish  fear  — 

Unworthy  even  of  a  well -trained  devil! 
Good  things  are  good  for  all  men  —  that  is  clear  — 
To  doubt  it  shows  your  heads  are  nowhere  near 
To  that  much -dreaded  level! 


THE   LOOKER  ON. 

The  world  was  full  of  the  battle, 
The  whole  world  far  and  wide  — 

Men  and  women  and  children 
Were  fighting  on  either  side. 

I  was  sent  from  the  hottest  combat 
With   a  message  of  life  and  death, 

Black  with   smoke  and  red  with   blood, 
Weary  and   out  of  breath, 

When  I  found  a  cheerful  stranger, 

Calm,  critical,  serene, 
Well   sheltered  from  all  danger  — 

Painting  a  battle  scene. 

He  was  cordially  glad  to  see  me  — 

The  coolly  smiling  wretch  — 
And  inquired  with  admiration, 
"  Do  you  rnind  if  I  make  a  sketch  ? ' 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  105 

So  he  had   me  down  in  a  minute, 
With   murmurs   of  real   delight ; 

My  "color"  was  "delicious," 
My  "action"  was  "just  right!" 

And   he  prattled   on  with  ardor 
Of  the  moving  scene  below  — 

Of  the  "values"  of  the  smoke  -  wreaths 
And  "  the  splendid  rush   and  go " 

Of  the  headlong  desperate  charges 

Where  a  thousand  lives  were  spent  — 

Of  the  "massing"  in  the  foreground 
With  the  "middle  distance"  blent. 

Said  I,  "  You   speak  serenely 
Of  the  living  death  in  view  — 

These  are  human  creatures  dying  — 
Are  you  not  human  too  ? 

"This  is  a  present  battle, 

Where  all  men  strive  to-day  — 

How  does  it  chance  you  sit  apart  ? 

Which  is  your  banner  —  say!" 

His  fresh  cheek  blanched  a  little, 
But  he  answered  with  a   smile 

That  he  fought  not  on   either  side  — 
He  was  watching  a  little  while. 

"Watching!"  said  I  — "and  neutral! 
Neutral  in  times  like  these ! " 


106  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

And  I  plucked  him  off  his  sketching  stool 
And   brought  him  to  his  knees. 

I  stripped  him  of  his  traveling  cloak 
And   showed   him   to  the   sky  — 

By  his  uniform  —  a  traitor! 
By  his  handiwork  —  a  spy  ! 

I  dragged   him   back  to  the  field  he  left  — 
To  the  fate   he  was  fitted  for  — 

We  have  no  place  for  lookers  on 
When  all  the  world 's  at  war  ! 


FREE   LAND   IS   NOT   ENOUGH. 

Free  land  is  not  enough.     In  earliest  days 

When  man,  the  baby,  from  the  earth's  bare  breast 

Drew  for  himself  his  simple  sustenance, 

Then  freedom  and  his  effort  were  enough. 

The  world  to  which  a  man  is  born  to-day 

Is  a  constructed,  human,  man -built  world. 

As  the  first  savage  needed  the  free  wood, 

We  need  the  road,  the  ship,  the  bridge,  the  house, 

The  government,  society,  and  church  — 

These  are  the  basis  of  our  life  to-day  — 

As  much  necessities  to  modern  man 

As  was  the  forest  to  his  ancestor. 

To  say  to  the  new-born,  "Take  here  your  land; 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  107 

In  primal  freedom  settle  where  you  will, 

And  work  your  own  salvation  in  the  world," 

Is  but  to  put  the  last  coine  upon  earth 

Back  with  dim  forerunners  of  his  race 

To  climb  the  race's  stairway  in  one  life  ! 

Allied  society  owes  to  the  young  — 

The  new  men  come  to  carry  on  the  world  — 

Account  for  all  the  past,  the  deeds,  the  keys, 

Full  access  to  the  riches  of  the  earth. 

Why  ?     That  these  new  ones  may  not  be  compelled, 

Each  for  himself,  to  do  our  work  again  — 

But  reach  their  manhood  even  with  to-day, 

And  gain  to-morrow  sooner.     To  go  on  — 

To  start  from  where  we  are  and  go  ahead  — 

That  is  true  progress,  true  humanity  ! 


WASTE. 

Doth  any  man  consider  what  we  waste? 

Here  in  God's  garden  ?     While  the  sea  is  full, 

The  sunlight  smiles,  and  all  the  blessed  earth 

Offers  her  wealth  to  our  intelligence. 

We  waste  our  food,  enough  for  half  the  world, 

In  helpless   luxury  among  the  rich, 

In  helpless  ignorance  among  the  poor, 

In  spilling  what  we  stop  to  quarrel  for. 

We  waste  our  wealth  in  failing  to  produce, 


108  IN  THIS  OUR   WORLD. 

In  robbing  of  each  other  every  day 

In  place  of  making  things  —  our  human  crown. 

We  waste  our  strength,  in  endless  effort  poured 

Like  water  on  the  sand,  still  toiling  on 

To  make  a  million  things  w^  do  i^nf.  wnr^t. 

We  waste  our  lives,  thoBe-wJii^h  should  atUl-lead  on, 

Each  new  one  gaining  on  the  age  behind, 

In  doing  what  we  all  have  done  before. 

We  waste  our  love*^—  poured  up  into  the  sky, 

Across  the  ocean,  into  desert  lands, 

Sunk  in  one  narrow  circle  next  ourselves  — 

While  these,  our  brothers,  suffer  —  are  alone. 

Ye  may  not  pass  the  near  to  love  the  far ; 

Ye  may  not  love  the  near  and  stop  at  that ; 

Love  spreads  through  man,  not  over  or  around! 

Yea,  grievously  iKrerWaste,  and  all  the  time 

Humanity  is  wanting  —  wanting  sore. 

Waste  not  my  brothers,  and  ye  shall  not  want ! 


NATIONALISM. 

The  nation  is  a  unit.     That  which  makes 
You  an  American  of  our  to-day 
Requires  the  nation  and  its  history, 
Requires  the  sum  of  all  our  citizens, 
Requires  the  product  of  our  common  toil, 
Requires  the  freedom  of  our  common  laws, 


OUR  HUMAN  KIND.  109 

The  common  heart  of  our  humanity. 
Decrease  our  population,  check  our  growth, 
Deprive  us  of  our  wealth,  our  liberty, 
Lower  the  nation's  conscience  by  a  hair, 
And  you  are  less  than  that  you  were  before  ! 
^you  j>tand  here  in  the  world  the  man  you  are 

Because..  -yQux_£onntry  is  Anrertcg: 

Our  liberty  belongs  to  each  of  us ; 

The  nation  guarantees  it;  in  return  .*.  {. 

We  serve  the  nation,  serving  so  ourselves. 

Our  education  is  a  common  right ; 

The  state  provides  it,  equally  to  all, 

Each  taking  what  he  can,  and  in  return 

We  serve  the  state,  so  serving  best  ourselves. 

Food,  clothing,  all  necessities  of  life  — 

These  are  a  right  as  much  as  liberty  ! 

The  nation  feeds  its  children.     In  return 

We  serve  the  nation,  serving  still  ourselves  — 

Nay,  not  ourselves  —  ourself!     We  are  but  parts, 

The  unit  is  the  state  —  America. 


OTHER  POEMS. 

SONGS    OF    SAN    FRANCISCO 

THE  SATIRIST. 


OTHER  POEMS. 


BALLAD   OF   THE   SUMMER   SUN. 

It  is  said  that  human  nature  needeth  hardship  to 

be  strong, 
That  highest  growth  has  come  to  man  in  countries 

white  with  snow, 

And  they  tell  of  truth  and  wisdom  that  to  north- 
ern folk  belong, 
And   claim   the   brain   is    feeble    where   the   south 

winds  always  blow. 

They  forget  to  read  the  story  of  the  ages  long  ago  — 
The  lore  that  built  the  pyramids  where  still  the 

simoom  veers, 
The  knowledge  framing  Tyrian  ships,  the  greater 

skill  that  steers, 
The  learning  of  the  Hindu  in   his  volumes  never 

done, 


114  OTHER  POEMS. 

All  the  wisdom  of  Egyptians  and  the  old  Chal- 
dean seers  — 

Came  to  man  in  summer  lands  beneath  a  summer 
sun. 

It  is  said  that  human  nature  needeth  hardship  to 

be  strong, 
That  courage  bred  of  meeting  cold  makes  martial 

bosoms  glow, 
And  they  point  to  mighty  generals  the  northern 

folk  among, 
And  call  mankind  emasculate  where  southern  waters 

flow. 
They  forget  to  look  at  history  and  see  the  nations 

grow  ! 

The  cohorts  of  Assyrian  kings,  the  Pharaohs'  char- 
ioteers, 
The  march  of  Alexander,  the  Persians'  conquering 

spears, 

The  legions  of  the  Romans,  from  Ethiop  to  Hun, 
The  power  that  mastered  all  the  world  and  held 

it  years  on  years  — 
Came  to  man  in  summer  lands  beneath  a  summer 

sun. 

It  is  said  that  human  nature  needeth  hardship  to 

be  strong, 
That   only   pain  and   suffering   the   power  to   feel 

bestow, 


BALLAD  OF  THE  SUMMER  SUN.  115 

And  they  show  us  noble  artists  made  great  by  loss 

and  wrong, 
And  say  the  soul  is  lowered   that   hath   pleasure 

without  woe. 
They  forget  the  perfect  monuments  that  pleasure's 

blessings  show, 
The   statue   and  the   temple   that   no   man   living 

nears, 

Song  and  verse  and  music  forever  in  the  ears, 
The  glory  that  remaineth  while  the  sands  of  time 

shall  run, 

The  beauty  of  immortal  art  that  never  disappears  — 
Came  to  man  in  summer  lands  beneath  a  summer 

sun. 

The  faith  of  Thor  and  Odin,  the   creed   of  force 

and  fears, 
Cruel  gods  that  deal  in  death,  the  icebound  soul 

reveres, 

But  the  Lord  of  Peace  and  Blessing  was  not  one  ! 
Truth  and  Power  and  Beauty — Love  that  endeth 

tears  — 
Came  to  man  in  summer  lands  beneath  a  summer 

sun. 


116  OTHER  POEMS. 


WINGS. 

A  sense  of  wings  — 

Soft  downy  wings  and  fair  — 
Great  wings  that  whistle  as  they  sweep 
Along  the  still  gulfs  —  empty  —  deep  — 
Of  thin  blue  air. 

Doves'  wings  that  follow  — 

Doves'  wings  that  fold  — 
Doves'   wings  that  flutter  down 

To  nestle  in  your  hold. 

Doves'  wings  that  settle  — 

Doves'  wings  that  rest  — 
Doves'  wings  that  brood  so  warm 

Above  the  little  nest. 

Larks'  wings  that  rise  and  rise, 
Climbing  the  rosy  skies  — 

Fold  and  drop  down 

To  birdlings  brown. 

Light  wings  of  wood  -  birds,  that  one  scarce  believes 
Moved  in  the  leaves. 

The  quick  shy  flight 

Of  wings  that  flee  in  fright  — 

A  start  as  swift  as  light  — 

Only  the  shaken  air 

To  tell  that  wings  were  there. 


COMPROMISE.  117 

Broad   wings  that  beat  for  many  days 
Above  the  land  wastes  and  the  water  ways  ; 
Beating  steadily  on   and   on, 
Through  dark  and   cold, 
Through  storms  untold, 
Till  the  far  sun  and  summer  land  is  won. 

And  wings  — 

Wings  that  unfold 

With  such  wide  sweep  before  your  would-be  hold — 
Such  glittering  sweep  of  whiteness — sun  on  snow — 
Such  mighty  plumes — strong-ribbed,  strong-webbed 
—  strong -knit  to  go 

From  earth  to  heaven  — ! 

Hear  the  air  flow  back 

In  their  wide  track! 
Feel  the  sweet  wind  these  wings  displace 

Beat  on  your  face  ! 
See  the  great   arc  of  light  like  rising  rockets  trail 

They  leave  in  leaving  — 

They  avail  — 

These  wings  —  for  flight ! 


COMPROMISE. 

It  is  well  to   fight  and   win  — 

If  that  may  be  ; 
It  is  well  to  fight  and   die  therein  — 

For  such  go  free  ; 


118  OTHER  POEMS. 

It  is  ill  to  fight  and  find  no  grave 

But  a  prison -cell  — 
To  keep  alive,  yet  live  a  slave  — 

Praise  those  who  fell ! 

But  worst  of  all  are  those  who  stand 

With  arms  laid  by, 
Bannerless,  helpless,  no  command, 

No  battle  -  cry. 

They  live  to  save  unvalued  breath, 

With  lowered  eyes ; 
In  place  of  victory,  or  death  — 

A  compromise  ! 


AS   FLEW   THE   CROSS. 

As  flew  the  fiery  cross  from  hand  to  hand, 

Kindling  the  scattered  people  to  one  flame, 

Out -blazing  fiercely  to  a  sudden  war; 

As  beacon  fires  flamed  up  from  hill  to  hill, 

Crying  afar  to  valleys  hidden  wide 

To  tell  their  many  dwellers  of  a  fear 

That  made  them  one  —  a  danger  shadowing  all !  — 

So  flies  to-day  the  torch  of  living  fire, 

From  mouth  to  mouth,  from  distant  ear  to  ear ; 

And  all  the  people  of  all  nations  hear  ; 

The  printed  word,  the  living  word  that  tells 

Of  the  great  glory  of  the  coming  day  — 

The  joy  that  makes  us  one  foreverinore  ! 


SERVICES.  119 

SERVICES. 

She  was  dead.     .Forth  went  the  word, 

And  every  creature  heard. 

To  the  last  hamlet  in  the  farthest  lands, 

To  people  countless  as  the  sands 

Of  primal  seas. 

And  with  the  word  so  sent 

Her  life's  full  record  went  — 

Of  what  fair  line,  how  gifted,,  how  endowed, 

How  educated  ;  and  then,  told  aloud, 

The  splendid  tale  of  what  her  life  had  done. 

And  all  the  people  heard  and  felt  as  one, 

Exulting  all  together  in  their  dead 

And  the  grand  story  of  the  life  she  led. 

But  in  the  city  where  her  body  lay 
Great  services  were  held  on  that  fair  day. 
People  by  thousands.     Music  to  the  sky. 
Flowers  of  a  garnered  season.     Winding  by, 
Processions,  glorious  in  rich  array, 
All  massing  in  the  temple  where  she  lay. 

Then,  when  the  music  rested,  rose  and  stood 
Those  who  could  speak  of  her  and  count  the  good, 
The  measureless  great  good  her  life  had  spread, 
That  all  might  hear  the  praises  of  their  dead. 
And  those  who  loved  her  sent  from  the  world's  end 
Their  tribute  to  the  memory  of  their  friend ; 


20  OTHER  POEMS. 

While  teachers  to  their  children  whispered  low, 
"  See  that  you  have  as  many  when  you  go  ! " 

Then  was  recited  how  her  life  had  part 

In  building  up  this  science  and  that  art, 

Inventing  here,  administering  there, 

Helping  to  organize,  create,  prepare, 

With  fullest  figures  to  expatiate 

On  her  unmeasured  value  to  the  state. 

And  the  child,  listening,  grew  in  noble  pride, 

And  planned  for  greater  praises  when  he  died. 

Then  the  Poet  spoke  of  those  long  ripening  years, 
And  tenderer  music  brought  the  grateful  tears  ; 
And  then,  lest  grief  upon  their  heartstrings  hang, 
Her  children  stood  around  the  bier  and  sang  : 

In  the  name  of  the  mother  that  bore  us  — 
Bore  us  strong  —  bore  us  free  — 

We  will  strive  in  the  labors  before  us, 
Even  as  she  !     Even  as  she ! 

In  the  name  of  her  wisdom  and  beauty, 

Of  her  life  full  of  light, 
We  will  live  in  our  national  duty, 

We  will  help  on  the  right ; 

We  will  love  as  her  heart  loved  before  us, 
Warm  and  wide  —  strong  and  high  ! 

In  the  name  of  the  mother  that  bore  us, 
We  will  live  !     We  will  die  ! 


SEEKING.  121 

SEEKING. 

I  went  to  look  for  Love  among  the  roses,  the  roses, 

The  pretty  winged  boy  with  the  arrow  and  the  bow, 

In  the  fair  and  fragrant  places, 

'Mongst  the  Muses  and  the  Graces, 

At  the  feet  of  Aphrodite,  with  the  roses  all  aglow. 

Then  I  sought  among  the  shrines  where  the  rosy 

flames  were  leaping  — 
The  rose   and  golden  flames,  never  ceasing,  never 

still  — 

For  the  boy  so  fair  and  slender, 
The  imperious,  the  tender, 

With  the  whole  world  moving  slowly  to  the  music 
of  his  will. 

Sought,  and  found  not  for  my  seeking,  till  the  sweet 

quest  led  me  further, 
And  before  me  rose  the  temple,  marble -based  and 

gold  above, 

Where  the  long  procession  marches 
'Neath  the  incense  -  clouded  arches 
In  the   world -compelling    worship    of   the    mighty 
God  of  Love. 

Yea  I  passed  with   bated   breath  to  the  holiest  of 

holies, 
And  I  lifted  the  great  curtain  from  the  Inmost  — 

the  Most  Fair  — 


122  OTHER  POEMS. 

Eager  for  the  joy  of  finding  — 
For  the  glory,  beating,  blinding  — 
Meeting  but  an  empty  darkness  —  darkness  —  silence 
—  nothing  there. 

Where    is    Love  ?    I    cried   in   anguish,   while   the 

temple  reeled  and  faded  — 
Where   is    Love? — for   I   must  find    him,  I  must 

know  and  understand  ! 
Died  the  music  and  the  laughter, 
Flames  and  music  dying  after, 
And  the  curtain  I  was  holding  fell  to  ashes  in  my 
hand. 


FINDING. 

Out  of  great  darkness  and   wide  wastes  of  silence, 

Long  loneliness,  and  slow  untasted  years, 
Came  a  slow  filling  of  the  empty  places, 
A  slow  sweet  lighting  of  forgotten  faces, 
A  smiling  under  tears. 

A  light  of  dawn  that  filled  the  brooding  heaven, 

A  warmth  that  kindled  all  the  earth  and  air, 
A  thrilling  tender  music,  floating,  stealing, 
A  fragrance  of  unnumbered  flowers  revealing 
A  sweetness  new  and  fair. 


NEW  DUTY.  123 

After  the  loss  of  love  where  I  had  sought  him, 

After  the  anguish  of  the  empty  shrine, 
Came  a  warm  joy  from  all  the  hearts  around  me, 
A  feeling  that  some  perfect  strength  had  found  me, 
Touch  of  the  hand  divine. 

I  followed  Love  to  his  inteusest  center, 

And  lost  him  utterly  when  fastened  there, 
I  let  him  go  and  ceased  my  selfish  seeking, 
Turning  my  heart  to  all  earth's  voices  speaking, 
And  found  him  everywhere. 

Love  like  the  rain  that  falls  on  just  and  unjust, 

Love  like  the  sunshine,  measureless  and  free, 
From  each  to  all,  from  all  to  each,  to  live  in ; 
And,  in  the  world's  glad  love  so  gladly  given, 
Came  heart's  true  love  to  me ! 


NEW   DUTY. 

Once  to  God  we  owed   it  all  — 

God  alone; 

Bowing  in  eternal  thrall  — 
Giving,  sacrificing  all  — 

Before  the  Throne. 

Once  we  owed  it  to  the  King  — 

Served  the  crown  ; 
Life,  and  love,  and  everything, 
In  allegience  to   the   King, 
Laying  down. 


124  .        OTHER  POEMS. 

Now  we  owe  it  to  Mankind  — 

To  our  Race  ; 

Fullest  fruit  of  soul  and  mind, 
Heart  and   hand  and  all  behind, 

Now  in  place. 

Loving- service,  wide  and  free, 

From  the  sod 
Up  in  varying  degree 
Through  me  and  you — through  you  and  me — 

Up  to  God  ! 


RUINED. 

I   am  ruined !   sobbed  the  seed, 
As  it  fell,  by  free  winds  shaken  ; 

For  the  earth  was  dark  indeed, 
All  the  light  and  heat  were  taken, 

All  the  birds'  songs  and  leaves'  laughter 

Only  silence  followed  after  — 

Cold  and  darkness  were  its  meed. 

I  am  ruined  !  cried  the  rock 

As  it  fell  in  fragments  scattered, 

For  its  strength   went  with   the  shock. 
All  its   use  on  earth  was   shattered ; 

All  its  grandeur  and  stern   beauty, 

All  its  forest-  bearing  duty  — 

Lost  in   many  a  shapeless  block. 


RUINED.  125 

I  am  ruined  !  wept  the   woman 

As  she  fell  by  Love's  beguiling, 
For  her  fate  was  fierce,  inhuman  ; 

All  hope   vanished,  sadly  smiling, 
All  the  chance  of  reinstatement, 
Only  shame  without  abatement, 

Endless  shame  for  fallen    woman. 

After  seedtime   came  the  sun, 

And   warm   rains  of  spring  caressing, 

Till  the  seed  that  was  but  one 
Grew  into  a  tree  of  blessing, 

Feeding,  shading,  emerald- suited, 

Rosy  -  blossomed,  golden  -  fruited  — 
Joy  of  all  it  shone  upon. 

The  torn  rock  lay  far  and  wide, 

Hammered  sore  and  carved  and  hollowed, 

Till  a  temple  rose  beside, 

And  fair  palaces  that  followed. 

Power  and  beauty  crowned  the  portals, 

Shelter  to  a  race  of  mortals  — 
Long  the  rock  was  glorified. 

And  the  woman  ?     She   rose  brave, 
Learned  new  wisdom  from  old  sorrow, 

Wide  that  costly  wisdom  gave 

For  all   helpless  ones  to  borrow  — 

Purer  for  the  fiery  trial, 

Stronger  for  the  long  denial, 

Soul  re -made  to  help  and  save. 


126  OTHER  POEMS. 


MOTHERHOOD. 

Motherhood  :     First  mere  laying  of  an  egg, 
With  blind  foreseeing   of  the  wisest  place, 
And  blind  provision  of  the  proper  food 
For  unseen  larva  to  grow  grow  fat  upon 
After   the  instinct -guided   mother  died  — 
Posthumous   motherhood,  no  love,  no  joy. 

Motherhood  :     Brooding  patient  o'er  the  nest, 
With  gentle  stirring  of  an  unknown  love ; 
Defending  eggs  unhatched,  feeding  the  young 
For  days  of  callow  feebleness,  and  then 
Driving  the  fledglings  from  the   nest  to  fly. 

Motherhood  :     When  the  kitten  and  the  cub 
Cried  out  alive,  and  first  the   mother  knew 
The  fumbling  of  furry  little  paws, 
The  pressure  of  the  hungry  little  mouths 
Against  the  more  than   ready   mother  -  breast — 
The  love  that  comes  of  giving  and  of  care. 

Motherhood  :     Nursing  with  her  heart -warm  milt 
Fighting  to  death  all  danger  to  her  young, 
Hunting  for  food  for  little  ones  half -weaned, 
Teaching  them  how  to  hunt  and  fight  in  turn- 
Then  loving  not  till  the  new  litter  came. 

Motherhood  :     When  the  little  savage  grew 
Tall  at  his  mother's  side,  and  learned  to  feel 


MOTHERHOOD.  127 

Some  mother  even  in   his  father's  heart. 
Love  coming  to  new  babies  while  the  first 
Still  needed   mother's  care,  and  therefore  love  — 
Love  lasting  longer  because  childhood  did. 

Motherhood  :     Semi -civilized,  intense, 

Fierce  with  brute  passion,  narrow  with  the  range 

Of  slavish  lives  to  meanest  service  bowed  ; 

Devoted  —  to  the  sacrifice  of  life; 

Jealous  beyond   belief,  and  ignorant 

Even  of  what  should  keep  the  child  alive. 

Love  spreading  with  the  spread  of  human  needs, 

The  child's  new,  changing,  ever-growing  wants, 

Yet  seeking  like  brute   mothers  of  the  past 

To  give  all  things  to   her  own   child  herself. 

Loving  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else; 

To  the  child's  service  bending  a  whole  life; 

Yet  stunting  the  young  creature  day  by  day 

With  lack  of  Justice,  Liberty,  and  Peace. 

Motherhood  :     Civilized.     There  stands  at  last 
Facing  the  heavens  with  as  calm   a  smile, 
The  highest  fruit  of  the  long  work  of  God ; 
The  highest  type  of  this,  the  highest  race  ; 
She  from  whose  groping  instinct  grew  all  love  — 
All  love  —  in  which  is  all  the  life  of  man. 

Motherhood  :     Seeing  with   her  clear  kind  eyes, 
Luminous,  tender  eyes,  wherein  the  smile 
Is  like  the  smile  of  sunlight  on  the  sea, 


128  OTHER  POEMS. 

That  the  new  children  of  the  newer  day 
Need   more  than   any   single   heart  can  give, 
More  than   is  known  to  any  single  mind, 
More  than  is  found  in  any  single  house, 
And  need  it  from   the  day  they  see  the  light. 
Then,  measuring  her  love  by  what  they   need, 
Gives,  from  the  heart  of  modern   motherhood. 
Gives  first,  as  tree  to   bear  God's  highest  fruit, 
A  clean  strong  body,  perfect  and   full  grown, 
Fair  for  the  purpose  of  its  womanhood, 
Not  for  light  fancy  of  a  lower  mind  ; 
Gives  a  clear  mind,  athletic,  beautiful, 
Dispassionate,  unswerving  from  the  truth  ; 
Gives  a  great  heart  that  throbs  with  human  love, 
As  she  would  wish  her  son  to  love  the  world. 

Then,  when  the  child  comes,  lovely  as  a  star, 

She,  in  the  peace  of  primal  motherhood, 

Nurses  her  baby  with  unceasing  joy, 

With   milk  of  human  kindness,  human  health, 

Bright  human  beauty,  and  immortal  love. 

And  then  ?     Ah!   here  is  the  New  Motherhood  — 

The  motherhood  of  the  fair  new -made  world  — 

0  glorious  New  Mother  of  New  Men  ! 

Her  child,  with  other  children  from  its  birth, 

In  the  unstinted  freedom   of  warm  air, 

Under  the  wisest  eyes,  the  tenderest  thought, 

Surrounded  by  all  beauty  and  all  peace, 

Led,  playing,  through  the  gardens  of  the  world, 


MOTHERHOOD.  129 

With  the  crowned  heads  of  science  and  great  love 
Mapping  safe  paths  for  those  small  rosy  feet  — 
Taught  human   love  by  feeling  human  love, 
Taught  justice  by  the  laws  that  rule  his  days, 
Taught  wisdom  by  the  way  in   which   he  lives, 
Taught  to  love  all  mankind  and  serve  them  fair 
By   seeing,  from   his  birth,  all   children  served 
With   the  same  righteous,  all-embracing  care. 

0  Mother  !     Noble  Mother,  yet  to  come  ! 

How  shall  thy   child  point  to  the   bright  career 

Of  her  of  whom  he   boasts  to   be  the  son  — 

Not  for  assiduous  service  spent  on  him, 

But  for  the   wisdom   which   has  set  him  forth 

A  clear  -  brained,  pure  -  souled,  noble  -  hearted  man, 

With  health  and  strength  and  beauty  for  his  own. 

And,  more,  for  the  wide  record  of  her  life, 

Great  work,  well  done,  that  makes  him  praise  her 

name 

And   long  to  make  as  great  a  one  his  own ! 
And    how   shall   all  the  children   of  the   world, 
Feeling  all  mothers  love  them,  loving  all, 
Rise   up   and  call  her   blessed  ! 
This  shall  be. 


130  OTHER  POEMS. 

THE   LOST   GAME. 

Came  the  big  children  to  the  little  ones, 
And  unto  them  full  pleasantly  did  say, 
"  Lo  !    we  have  spread  for  you  a  merry  game, 
And  ye  shall  all  be  winners  at  the  same  — 
Come  now  and  play  ! " 

Great  is  the  game  they  enter  in  — 

Rouge  et  Noir  on  a  giant  scale  — 
Red  with  blood  and  black  with  sin, 
Where  many  must  lose  and  few  may  win, 
And  the  players  never  fail ! 

Said  the  strong  children  to  the  weaker  ones, 
\  "  See,  ye  are  many,  and  we  are  but  few  ! 
The  mass  of  all  the  counters  ye  divide, 
But  few  remain  to  share  upon  our  side  — 
Play  — as  we  do!" 

Strange  is  the  game  they  enter  in  — 
Rouge  et  Noir  on  a  field  of  pain  ! 
And  the  silver  white  and  the  yellow  gold 
Pile  and  pile  in  the  victor's  hold, 
While  the  many  play  in  vain ! 

Said  the  weak  children  to  the  stronger  ones, 

"See  now,  howe'er  it  fall,  we  lose  our  share! 
And  play  we  well  or  ill  we  always  lose  — 
While  ye  gain  always,  more  than  ye  can  use — = 
Bethink  ye  —  is  it  fair?" 


THE  LOST  GAME.  131 

Strange  is  the  game  they  enter  in  — 

Rouge  et  Noir,  and  the  bank  is  strong  ! 
Play  they  well  or  play  they  wide 
The  gold  is  still  on  the  banker's  side, 
And  the  game  endureth  long. 

Said  the  strong  children,  each  aside  to  each, 

"The  game  is  slow — our  gains  are  all  too  small ! 
Play  we  together  now,  'gainst  them  apart  — 
So  shall  these  dull  ones  lose  it  from  the  start, 
And  we  shall  gain  it  all !  " 

Strange  is  the  game  that  now  they  win  — 

Rouge  et  Noir  with  a  new  design  f 
What  can  the  many  players  do 
Whose  wits  are  weak  and  counters  feiv 
When  the  Power  and  the  Gold  combine  ? 

Said  the  weak  children  to  the  stronger  ones, 

"  We  care  not  for  the  game  ! 
For  play  as  we  may  our  chance  is  small, 
And  play  as  ye  may  ye  have  it  all  — 
The  end  's  the  same  !  " 

Strange  is  the  game  the  world  doth  play  ; 

Rouge  et  Noir,  with  the  counters  gold, 
Red  with  blood  and  black  with  sin ; 
Few  and  fewer  are  they  that  win 

As  the  ages  pass  untold. 

Said  the  strong  children  to  the  weaker  ones, 
"  Ye  lose  in  laziness  !  ye  lose  in  sleep  ! 


132  OTHER  POEMS. 

Play  faster  now  and  make  the  counters  spin  ! 

Play  well,  as  we,  and  ye  in  time  shall  win  ! 

Play  fast !     Play  deep  !  " 

Strange  is  the  game  of  Rouge  et  Noir  — 

Never  a  point  have  the  little  ones  won  — 
The  winners  are  strong  and  flushed  with  gain, 
The  losers  are  weak  with  ivant  and  pain> 
And  still  the  game  goes  on. 

But  those  rich  players  grew  so  very  few, 

So  many  grew  the  poor  ones,  that  one  day 
They  rose  up  from  that  table,  side  by  side, 
Calm,  countless,  terrible  —  they  rose  and  cried 
In  one  great  voice  that  shook  the  heavens  wide, 

"  WE    WILL    NOT    PLAY  !  " 

Where  is  the  game  of  Rouge  et  Noir  f 

Where  is  the  wealth  of  yesterday  ? 
What  availeth  the  power  ye  tell, 
And  the  skill  in  the  game  ye  play  so  well, 
If  the  players  will  not  play  f 


WHO   IS   TO   BLAME? 

Who  was  to  blame  in  that  old  time 

Of  the  unnoticed  groan, 
When   prisoners   without  proof  of  crime 
Rotted   in  dungeons   wet  with   slime, 

And  died  unknown  ? 


WHO  IS   TO  BLAME  ?  133 

When   torture   was   a   common   thing, 

When   fire   could   speak, 
When  the   flayed   wretch  hung   quivering, 
And   rack-strained   tendons,   string  by  string, 

Snapped   with   a  shriek  ? 

Is  it  the  Headsman,  following  still 

The  laws   his  masters  give  ? 
Is  it  the   Church  or  King  who  kill  ? 
Or  just  the   People,  by  whose  will 

Church,  King,  and  Headsman  live  ? 

The  People,  bowing  slavish  knee 

With  tribute  fruits  of  earth  ; 
The  People,  gathering  to  see 
The  stake,  the  axe,  the  gallows-tree, 

In   brutal  mirth  ! 

The  People,  countenancing  pain 

By  willing  presence  there ; 
The  People  —  you   might  shriek  in   vain, 
Poor  son   of  Abel  or  of  Cain  — 

The  People  did  not  care  ! 

And   now,  in   this  fair  age   we're  in, 

Who  is  to  blame? 
When  men  go  mad  and  women  sin 
Because  the  life  they  struggle  in 

Enforces  shame  ! 


134  OTHER  POEMS. 

When   torture  is  so  deep,  so  wide  — 

The  kind   we  give  — 
So  long  drawn   out,  so  well  supplied, 
That  men   die  now  by  suicide, 

Rather  than  live  ! 

Is  it  the  Rich   Man,  grinding  still 

The  faces  of  the  poor  ? 
Is   it  our   System  which    must  kill  ? 
Or  just  the  People,  by  whose  will 

That  system  can  endure  ? 

The  People,  bowing  slavish    knee 

With  tribute  fruits  of  earth  ; 

The  People,  who  can   bear  to  see 

In  crime  and  death  and  poverty 

Fair  ground   for  mirth  ! 

The  People,  countenancing  pain 
By  willing  presence  there  ; 
The  People  —  you  may  shriek  in  vain  — 
Protest,  rebel,  beseech,  complain  — 
The  People  do  not  care  ! 

Each   man  and  woman   feels  the  weight 

Of  their  own  private  share  ; 
But  for  the  suffering  of  the  state, 
That  falls  on   all  men  soon   or  late, 
The   People  do  not  care  ! 


OUT  OF  PLACE.  135 


OUT   OF   PLACE. 

Cell  —  poor  little  cell, 
Distended  with  pain, 
Torn  with  the  pressure 
Of  currents  of  effort 
Resisted  in   vain, 
Feeling  sweep  by  you 
The  stream  of  nutrition, 
Unable  to  take, 
Crushed   flat  and  inactive  — 
While  shudder  across  you 
Great  forces  that  wake. 
Alone  —  while  far  voices 
Across  all  the  shouting 
Call  you  to  your  own  — 
Held  fast  —  fastened  close  — 
Surrounded  —  enveloped  — 
How  you  starve  there  alone ! 
Cell  — poor  little  cell!  — 
Let  the  pain  pass  —  don't  hold  it- 
Let  the  effort  pass  through  you  — 
Let  go  !     And  give  way  !  — 
You  will  find  your  own  place; 
You  will  join  your  own  people  ; 
See  the  light  of  your  day  ! 


136  OTHER^  POEMS. 

OUT   OF   THE   GATE. 

Out  of  the  glorious  city  gate 

A  great  throng  came. 

A  mighty  throng  that  swelled  and  grew 

Around  a  face  that  all  men  knew  — 

A  man  who  bore  a  noted  name  — 

Gathered  to  listen  to  his  fate. 

The  Judge  sat  high.     Unbroken  black 
Around,  above,  and  at  his  back. 
The  people  pressed  for  nearer  place, 
Longing,  yet  shamed,  to  watch  that  face  ; 
And  in  a  space  before  the  throne 
The  prisoner  stood,  unbound,  alone. 
So  thick  they  rose  on  every  side 
There  was  no  spot  his  face  to  hide. 

Then  came  the  Herald,  crying  clear, 
That  all  the  listening  crowd  should  hear  ; 
Crying  aloud  before  the  sun 
What  thing  this  fallen  man  had  done. 
He  —  who  had  held  a  ruler's  place 
Among  them,  by  their  choice  and  grace  — 
He  —  fallen  lower  than  the  dust  — 
Had  sinned  against  his  public  trust ! 

The  Herald  ceased.     The  Poet  arose, 
The  Poet,  whose  awful  art  now  shows 


OUT  OF  THE  GATE.  137 

To  this  poor  heart,  and  heart  of  every  one, 
The  horror  of  the  thing  that  he  had  done. 

"  0  Citizen  !     Dweller  in  this  high  place  ! 
Son  of  the  city  !     Sharer  in  its  pride  ! 
Born  in  the  light  of  its  fair  face  ! 
By  it  fed,  sheltered,  taught,  and  glorified  ! 
Raised  to  pure  manhood  by  thy  city's  care  ! 
Made  strong  and  beautiful  and  happy  there  ; 
Loving  thy  mother  and  thy  father  more 
For  the  fair  town  which  made  them  glad  before  ; 
Finding  among  its  maidens  thy  sweet  wife  ; 
Owing  to  it  thy  power  and  place  in  life ; 
Raised  by  its  people  to  the  lofty  stand 
Where  thou  couldst  execute  their  high  command; 
Trusted  and  honored,  lifted  over  all  — 
So  honored  and  so  trusted  didst  thou  fall ! 
Against  the  people  —  who  gave  thee  the  power — 
Thou  hast  misused  it  in  an  evil  hour  ! 
Against  the  city  where  thou  owest  all  — 
Thy  city,  man,  within  whose  guarding  wall 
Thy  life  hath  found  a  wise  and  loving  care, 
All  good  things  plentifully  given  there  — 
Against  thy  city,  beautiful  and  strong, 
Thou,  with  the   power  it   gave,   hast   done   this 
wrong  ! " 

Then  rose  the  Judge.  "  Prisoner,  thy  case  was  tried 

Fairly  and  fully  in  the  courts  inside. 

Thy  guilt  was  proven  and  thou  hast  confessed, 


138  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  now  the  people's  voice  must  do  the  rest. 
I  speak  the  sentence  which  the  people  give  — 
It  is  permitted  thee  to  freely  live, 
Redeem  thy  sin  by  service  to  the  state, 
But  nevermore  within  this  city's  gate  ! " 

Back  rolled  the  long  procession,  sad  and  slow, 
Back  where  the  city's  thousand  banners  blow. 
The  solemn  music  rises  glad  and  clear 
When  the  great  gates  before  them  open  near, 
Rises  in  triumph,  sinks  to  sweet  repose, 
When  the  great  gates  behind  them  swing  and  close. 
Free  stands  the  prisoner,  with  a  heart  of  stone. 
The  city  gate  is  shut.     He  is  alone. 


LIMITS. 

On  sand  —  loose  sand  and  shifting  — 
On  sand  —  dry  sand  and  drifting  — 

The  city  grows  to  the  west ; 
Not  till  its  border  reaches 
The  ocean -beaten  beaches 
Will  it  rest. 

On  hills  —  steep  hills  and  lonely, 
That  stop  at  cloudland  only  — 

The  city  climbs  to  the  sky  ; 
Not  till  the  souls  who  make  it 
Touch  the  clear  light  and  take  it, 
Will  it  die. 


AN  ECONOMIST.  139 


AN   ECONOMIST. 

The  serene  savage  sitting  in  his  tree 

Saw  empires  rise  and  fall, 
And  moralized  on  their  uncertainty  — 
(He  never  rose  at  all  ! ) 

He  was  full  fat  from  god- sent  droves  of  prey; 

He  was  full  calm  from  satisfied  desire  ; 
He  was  full  wise  in  that  he  chose  to  stay 
Free  from  ambition's  fire. 

"  See,"  quoth  the  savage,  "  how  they  toil  and  strive 
To  make  things  better  —  vain  and  idle  wish! 
Here  is  good  store  of  what  keeps  mau  alive, 
Of  fruit,  and  flesh,  and  fish. 

"  Poor  discontented  wretches,  fed  on  air, 

Seeking  to  change  the  normal  lot  of  man, 
To  lure  him  from  this  natural  strife  and  care, 
With  vague  Utopian  plan  ! 

"Here's    wealth    and   joy  —  why    seek    for    any 

change  ? 

Why  labor  for  a  more  elaborate  life  ? 
As  if  God  could  not  his  own  world  arrange 
Without  our  fretful  strife  ! 

"Those  who  complain  of  savagery  as  low 
Are  merely  proven  lazy  and  too  weak 


140  OTHER  POEMS. 

To  live  by  skillful  hunt  and  deadly  blow  — 
It  is  their  needs  that  speak. 

"  Complain  of  warfare  !    Cry  that  peace  is  sweet ! 
Complain  of  hunting  !    Prate  of  toil  and  trade  ! 
It  only  proves  that  they  cannot  compete 
In  the  free  life  we  've  made." 

Another  empire  reeled  into  its  grave ; 

The  savage  sat  serenely  as  before, 
As  calm  and  wise,  as  cunning  and  as  brave  — 
Never  an  atom  more. 


THE   PIG   AND   THE   PEARL. 

Said  the  Pig  to  the  Pearl,  "Oh,  fie! 
Tasteless  —  and  hard — and  dry  — 

Get  out  of  my  sty ! 
Glittering,  smooth,  and  clean, 
You  only  seek  to  be  seen  ! 
I  am  dirty  and  big  ! 
A  virtuous,  valuable  pig. 
For  me  all  things  are  sweet 
That  I  can  possibly  eat ; 
But  you  —  how  can  you  be  good 
Without  being  fit  for  food  ? 
Not  even  food  for  me  — 
Who  can  eat  all  this  you  see, 


THE  PIG  AND   THE  PEARL.  141 

No  matter  how  foul  and  sour ; 
I  revel  from  hour  to  hour 
In  refuse  of  great  and  small, 
But  you  are  no  good  at  all, 
And  if  I  should  gulp  you,  quick, 
It  would  probably  make  me  sick  ! " 
Said  the  Pig  to  the  Pearl,  "  Oh,  fie  ! " 
And  she  rooted  her  out  of  the  sty. 

A  Philosopher  chancing  to  pass 

Saw  the  Pearl  in  the  grass  ; 

And  laid  hands  on  the  same  in  a  trice, 

For  the  Pearl  was  a  Pearl  of  Great  Price. 

Said  he,  "  Madame  Pig,  if  you  knew 

What  a  fool  thing  you  do, 

It  would  grieve  even  you  ! 

Grant  that  pearls  are  not  just  to  your  taste, 

Must  you  let  them  run  waste  ? 

You  care  only  for  hogwash,  I  know, 

For  your  litter  and  you.     Even  so, 

This  tasteless  hard  thing  which  you  scorn 

Would  buy  acres  of  corn  ; 

And  apples  and  pumpkins,  and  pease, 

By  the  ton,  if  you  please  ! 

By  the  wealth  which  this  pearl  represents, 

You  could  grow  so  immense  — 

You,  and  every  last  one  of  your  young  — 

That  your  fame  would  be  sung 

As  the  takers!  of  every  first  prize, 


142  OTHER  POEMS. 

For  your  flavor  and  size  ! 

From  even  a  Pig's  point  of  view 

The  Pearl  was  worth  millions  to  you. 

Be  a  Pig  —  and  a  fool  —  (you  must  be  them) 

But  try  to  know  Pearls  when  you  see  them  ! " 


A   MISFIT. 

0  Lord,  take  me  out  of  this  ! 

I  do  not  fit! 

My  body   does   not  suit   my   mind, 
My  brain  is  weak  in  the  knees  and  blind, 
My  clothes   are   not   what  I  want  to  find  — 

Not  one  bit ! 

My   house  is   not   the  house  I  like  — 

Not  one  bit ! 

My  church  is  built  so  loose  and  thin 
That  ten  fall  out  where  one  falls  in  — 
My  creed  is  buttoned   with   a  pin  — 

It  does  not  fit! 

The  school  I  went  to  was  n't  right  — 

Not  one  bit ! 
The  education  given   me 
Was   meant  for  the  community, 
And   my  poor  head   works  differently  — 

It  does  not  fit ! 


THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  LIGHT.  143 

I  try  to  move  and   find  I  can't  — 

Not  one   bit ! 

Things  that  were  given  me  to  stay 
Are   mostly  lost  and  blown   away, 
And   what  I  have  to  use  to-day  — 

It  does  not  fit ! 

What  I  was  taught  I  cannot  do  — 

Not   one  bit ! 

And  what  I  do  I  was  not  taught  — 
And  what  I  find  I   have  not  sought  — 
I  never  say  the  thing  I  ought  — 

It  does  not  fit ! 

I  have  not  meant  to  be  like  this  — 

Not  one  bit ! 

But  in  the  puzzle  and   the  strife 
I  fail  my  friend  and  pain   my  wife  — 
Oh,  how  it  hurts  to  have  a  life 

That  does  not  fit! 


THE   KEEPER  OF   THE   LIGHT. 

A  lighthouse  keeper  with  a  loving  heart 

Toiled  at  his  service  in  the  lonely  tower, 
Keeping  his  giant  lenses  clear  and  bright, 
And  feeding  with  pure  oil  the  precious  light 
Whose  power  to  save  was  as  his  own  heart's  power. 


144  OTHER  POEMS. 

He  loved  his  kind,  and  being  set  alone 

To  help  them  by  the  means  of  this  great  light, 
He  poured  his  whole  heart's  service  into  it, 
And  sent  his  love  down  the  long  beams  that  lit 
The  waste  of  broken  water  in  the  night. 

He  loved  his  kind,  and  joyed  to  see  the  ships 

Come  out  of  nowhere  into  his  bright  field, 
And  glide  by  safely  with  their  living  men, 
Past  him  and  out  into  the  dark  again, 

To  other  hands  their  freight  of  joy  to  yield. 

His  work  was  noble  and  his  work  was  done  ; 

He  kept  the  ships  in  safety  and  was  glad  ; 
And  yet,  late  coming  with  the  light's  supplies, 
They  found  the  love  no  longer  in  his  eyes  — 

The  keeper  of  the  light  had  fallen  mad. 


IT  IS   GOOD   TO   BE   ALIVE. 

It  is  good  to  be  alive  when  the  trees  shine  green, 
And  the  steep  red  hills  stand  up  against  the  sky  ; 
Big  sky,  blue  sky,  with  flying  clouds  between  — 
It  is  good  to  be  alive  and  see  the  clouds  drive  by  ! 

It  is  good  to  be  alive  when  the  strong  winds  blow, 
The  strong  sweet  winds  blowing  straightly  off  the  sea; 
Great  sea,  green  sea,  with  swinging  ebb  and  flow  — 
It  is  good  to  be  alive  and  see  the  waves  roll  free  ! 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN.  145 


CHRISTMAS   HYMN. 

Listen  not  to  the  word  that  would  have  you  believe 
That  the  voice  of  the  age  is  a  moan  — 

That  the  red  hand  of  wrong 

Is  triumphant  and  strong, 
And  that  wrong  is  triumphant  alone  — 
There  was  never  a  time  on  the  face  of  the  earth 

When  love  was  so  near  its  own. 

Do  you  think  that  the  love  which  has  died  for  the 

world 
Has  not  lived  for  the  world  also? 

Filling  man  with  the  fire 

Of  a  boundless  desire 
To  love  all  with  a  love  that  shall  grow  ? 
It  was  not  for  nothing  the  ^hite  Christ  was  born 

Two  thousand  years  ago. 

The  power  that  gave  birth  to  the  Son  of  the  King 
All  life  doth  move  and  thrill, 

Every  age  as  't  is  passed 

Coming  nearer  at  last 
To  the  law  of  that  wonderful  will — 
As  our  God  so  loved  the  world  that  day, 

Our  God  so  loves  it  still. 

The  love  that  fed  poverty,  making  it  thrive, 
Is  learning  a  lovelier  way. 


146  OTHER  POEMS. 

We  have  seen  that  the  poor 

Need  be  with  us  no  more, 
And  that  sin  may  be  driven  away  — 
The  love  that  has  carried  the  martyrs  to  death 

Is  entering  life  to-day. 

The  spirit  of  Christ  is  awake  and  alive, 
In  the  work  of  the  world  it  is  shown  — 

Crying  loud,  crying  clear, 

That  the  Kingdom  is  here, 
And  that  all  men  are  heirs  to  the  throne  ! 
There  was  never  a  time  since  the  making  of  man 

When  love  was  so  near  its  own  ! 


THANKSGIVING. 

Well  is  it  for  the  land  whose  people,  yearly, 
Turn  to  the  Giver  of  all  Good  with  praise, 

Chanting  glad  hymns  that  thank  him,  loudly,  clearly, 
Rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  his  ways. 

Great  name  that  means  all  perfectness  and  power  ! 

We  thank  thee  —  not  for  mercy,  nor  release, 
But  for  clear  joy  in  sky  and  sea  and  flower, 

In  thy  pure  justice,  and  thy  blessed  peace. 

We  live ;  behind  us  the  dark  past ;  before, 
A  wide  way  full  of  light  that  thou  dost  give ; 

More  light,  more  strength,  more  joy,  and  evermore — 
0  God  of  joy  1  we  thank  thee  that  we  live  I 


MORNING.  147 


MORNING. 

Think  not  of  the  morning  as  coming  and  going, 

Growing  out  of  the  dark, 

Growing  into  the  day  — 

While  your  place  in  the  circle  is  lit  by  the  glowing 
Which  cometh  and  passeth  away. 

But  see  the  green  circle  still  turning  and  turning, 
While  the  sun  never  faileth 
Wherever  earth  flies ; 

The  light  poureth  steady — the  earth  turneth  ready — 
And  the  glory  of  morning  on  earth  never  dies. 

Like  the  crest  of  a  wave  combing  white  o'er  green 
hollows, 

Sweeps  the  crest  of  the  morning 

Around  the  green  world, 
And  dawn  -  music  rolls  up  in  the  path  that  it  follows 

fWith  bright  flowers  unfolded  and  light  wings 
unfurled. 


148  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE   WOLF   AT  THE   DOOR. 

There 's  a  haunting  horror  near  us 

That  nothing  drives  away  — 
Fierce  lamping  eyes  at  nightfall, 

A  crouching  shade  by  day  ; 
There 's  a  whining  at  the  threshold, 

There's  a  scratching  at  the  floor — 
To  work  !     To  work  !     In  Heaven's  name  ! 

The  wolf  is  at  the  door! 

The  day  was  long,  the  night  was  short, 

The  bed  was   hard  and   cold, 
Still  weary  are  the  little  ones, 

Still  weary  are  the  old  : 
We  are  weary  in  our  cradles 

From  our  mother's  toil  untold  ; 
We  are  born  to  hoarded  weariness 

As  some  to  hoarded  gold. 

We  will  not  rise!     We  will  not  work! 

Nothing  the  day  can  give 
Is  half  so  sweet  as  an  hour  of  sleep ; 

Better  to  sleep  than  live  ! 
What  power  can  stir  these  heavy  limbs  ? 

What  hope  these  dull  hearts  swell  ? 
What  fear  more  cold,  what  pain  more  sharp, 

Than  the  life  we  know  so  well  ? 


THE  WOLF  AT  THE  DOOR.  149 

To  die  like  a  man  by  lead   or  steel 

Is   nothing  that  we  should  fear : 
No  human  death  would  be   worse  to  feel 

Than  the  life  that  holds  us  here : 
But  this  is  a  fear  no  heart  can  face  — 

A  fate  no  man  can  dare  — 
To  be  run  to  earth  and  die  by  the  teeth 

Of  the  gnawing  monster  there ! 

The  slow  relentless  padding  step 

That  never  goes  astray  — 
The  rustle  in  the  underbrush  — 

The    shadow  in  the  way  — 
The  straining  flight  —  the  long  pursuit  — 

The  steady  gain  behind  — 
Death  -  wearied  man  and  tireless  brute, 

And  the  struggle  wild  and  blind  ! 

There's  a  hot  breath  at  the  keyhole 

And  a  tearing  as  of  teeth  ! 
Well  do  I  know  the  bloodshot  eyes 

And  the  dripping  jaws  beneath  ! 
There's  a  whining  at  the  threshold  — 

There's  a  scratching  at  the  floor  — 
To  work  !     To  work  !     In  Heaven's  name  ! 

The  wolf  is  at  the  door  ! 


150  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE   LIVING   GOD. 

The  Living  God.     The  God  that  made  the   world. 

Made  it  and  stood  aside  to  watch  and  wait. 

Arranging  a  predestined  plan 

To  save  the  erring  soul  of  man  — 

Undying  destiny  —  unswerving  fate  — 

I  see  his  hand  in  the  path  of  life, 

His  law  to  doom  and  save, 

His  love  divine  in  the  hopes  that  shine 

Beyond  the  sinner's  grave, 

His  care  that  sendeth  sun  and  rain, 

His  wisdom  giving  rest, 

His  price  of  sin  that  we  may  not  win 

The  heaven  of  the  blest. 

Not  near  enough  !     Not  clear  enough  ! 

0  God,  come  nearer  still ! 
I  long  for  thee !     Be  strong  for  me  ! 

Teach  me  to  know  thy  will ! 

The  Living  God.     The  God  that  makes  the  world, 

Makes  it- — is  making  it  in  all  its  worth  ; 

His  spirit  speaking  sure  and  slow 

In  the  real  universe  we  know  — 

God  living  in  the  earth. 

I  feel  his  breath  in  the  blowing  wind, 

His  pulse  in  the  swinging  sea, 

And  the  sunlit  sod  is  the  breast  of  God 


THE  LIVING   OOD.  151 

Whose  strength  we  feel  and  see. 

His  tenderness  in  the  springing  grass, 

His  beauty  in  the  flowers, 

His  living  love  in  the  sun  above  — 

All  here,  and  near,  and  ours  ! 

Not  near  enough !     Not  clear  enough  ! 

0  God,  come  nearer  still ! 
I  long  for  thee  !     Be  strong  for  me! 

Teach  me  to  know  thy  will ! 

The  Living  God.     The  God  that  is  the  world. 

The  world  ?     The  world  is  man — the  work  of  man. 

Then  —  dare  I  follow  what  I  see  ?  — 

Then  —  By  Thy  Glory  — it  must  be 

That  we  are  in  thy  plan  ! 

That  strength  divine  in  the  work  we  do  — 

That  love  in  our  mothers'  eyes  — 

That  wisdom  clear  in  our  thinking  here  — 

That  power  to  help  us  rise  — 

God  in  the  daily  work  we  've  done, 

In  the  daily  path  we  've  trod  — 

Stand  still  my  heart  for  I  am  a  part  — 

I  too  —  of  the  Living  God  ! 

Ah,  clear  as  light  !     As  near  !     As  bright ! 

O  God!     My  God!     My  Own! 
Command  thou  me  !     I  stand  for  thee  ! 

And  I  do  not  stand  alone  ! 


152  OTHER   POEMS. 


MY   CYCLAMEN. 

A  little  dull  brown   bulb  from  somewhere, 

And  out  of  its   heart, 
For  days  and   months  together, 
With   never  a  thought  for  time  or  weather, 

The  white  buds  start. 

Great  green  lovely  leaves  surround  it, 

Shaped  like  a  heart, 
Large  green  leaves  with  purple  under, 
And  when  they  fall  —  the  living  wonder!  — 

Fair  new  ones  start. 

No  matter  now  for  air  or  sunlight, 

Alone  it  lives. 

Once  'twas  fed  with  a  flower's  full  blessing, 
And  from  that  memory  caressing 

It  gives  and  gives  ! 

Crowding  up  in  their  generous  beauty 

The  white  buds  start ; 

Once  made   rich  with  the  joy  of  living  — 
Now  it  has  more  in  giving  and  giving 

Out  of  its  heart. 


BIRTH.  153 


BIRTH. 

Lord,  I  am   born  ! 
I  have  built  me  a  body 
Whose  ways  are  all  open, 
Whose  currents  run  free, 
From  the  life  that  is  thine 
Flowing  ever  within   me, 
To  the  life  that  is  mine 
Flowing  outward  through  me. 

I   am  clothed,  and   my  raiment 
Fits  smooth  to  the  spirit, 
The  soul  moves  unhindered, 
The  body  is  free ; 
And  the  thought  that  my  body 
Falls  short  of  expressing 
In  texture  and  color 
Unfoldeth  on   me. 

I  am  housed,  0  my  Father  ! 
My   body   is  sheltered, 
My  spirit  has  room 
Twixt  the  whole  world  and   me, 
I  am  guarded  with  beauty  and  strength, 
And  within  it 
Is  room  for  still  union, 
And  birth  floweth  free. 


164  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  the  union  and   birth 
Of  the  house  ever  growing 
Have  built  me  a  city  — 
Have  born  me  a  state  — 
Where  I  live  manifold, 
Many -voiced,  many -hearted, 
Never  dead,  never  weary, 
And  oh  !    never  parted  ! 
The  life  of  The  Human, 
So  subtle  —  so  great! 

Lord,  I  am  born  ! 
From  inmost  to  outmost 
The  ways  are  all  open  — 
The  currents  run   free  — 
From  thy  voice  in   my  soul 
To  my  joy  in   the  people  — 
I  thank  thee,  0  God, 
For  this  body  thou  gavest, 
Which  enfoldeth   the  earth  — 
Is  enfolded  by  thee  ! 


SONGS    OF    SAN    FRANCISCO 


THE   HILLS. 

The  flowing  waves  of  our  warm  sea 

Roll  to  the  beach  and   die, 
But  the  soul  of  the  waves  forever  fills 
The  curving  crests  of  our  restless  hills 

That  climb  so  wantonly. 

Up  and  up  till  you  look  to  see 

Along  the  cloud  -  kissed  top 
The  great  hill -breakers  curve  and  comb 
In   crumbling  lines  of  falling  foain 

Before  they   settle   and  drop. 

Down   and    down  with  the  shuddering  sweep 

Of  the  sea -wave's  glassy  wall, 
You  sink  with  a  plunge  that  takes  your  breath, 
A  thrill  that  stirreth   and  quickeiieth, 
Like  the  great  line  steamer's  fall. 

NOTE.  — "Songs  of  San  Francisco"  and  "The  Satirist"  poems    were 
first  published  in  The  Impress,  of  San  Francisco. 


156  SONGS  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

We  have  laid  our  streets  by  the  square  and  line, 
We  have  built  by  the  line  and  square, 
But  the  strong  hill -rises  arch  below 
And  force  the  houses  to  curve  and   flow 
Tn  lines  of  beauty  there. 

And  off  to  the  north  and  east   and  south, 

With  wildering  mists  between, 
They  ring  us  round   with   wavering  hold, 
With   fold   on  fold  of  rose  and  gold, 
Violet,  azure,  and  green. 


CITY'S  BEAUTY. 

Fair,  oh,  fair  are  the  hills  uncrowned, 
Only  wreathed  and  garlanded 
With  the  soft  clouds  overhead, 

With  the  waving  streams  of  rain  ; 

Fair  in  golden  sunlight  drowned. 

Bathed  and   buried   in  the  bright 
Warm  luxuriance  of  light  — 

Fair  the   hills  without  a  stain. 

Fairer  far  the  hills  should  stand 
Crowned  with  a  city's  halls, 
With  the  glimmer  of  white  walls, 

With  the  climbing  grace  of  towers  ; 

Fair  with  great  fronts  tall  and  grand , 


"AN   UNUSUAL   RAIN."  157 

Stately  streets  that  meet  the  sky, 
Lovely  roof- lines,  low  and  high  — 
Fairer  for  the  days  and   hours. 

Woman's  beauty  fades  and   flies, 

In  the  passing  of  the  years, 

With  the  falling  of  the  tears, 
With  the  lines  of  toil  and  stress  ; 
City's  beauty  never  dies  — 

Never  while  her  people  know 

How  to  love   and   honor  so 
Her  immortal  loveliness. 


"AN   UNUSUAL   RAIN." 

Again  ! 

Another  day  of  rain  ! 

It  has  rained  for  years. 

It  never  clears. 

The  clouds  come  down  so  low 

They  drag  and  drip 

Across  each  hill  -  top's  tip. 

In  progress  slow 

They  blow  in  from  the  sea 

Eternally  ; 

Hang  heavily  and  black, 

And  then   roll  back  ; 

And  rain  and  rain  and  rain, 

Both  drifting  in  and  drifting  out  again. 


158  SONGS  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

They  come  down  to  the  ground, 

These  clouds,  where  the  ground  is   high  ; 

And,  lest  the  weather  fiend  forget 

And  leave  one  hidden  spot  unwet, 

The  fog  comes   up  to  the  sky  ! 

And  all  our  pavement  of  planks  and  logs 

Reeks  with  the  rain  and  steeps  in  the  fogs 

Till  the  water  rises  and   sinks  and   presses 

Into  your  bonnets  and  shoes  and   dresses  ; 

And  every  outdoor -going  dunce 

Is  wet  in  forty  ways  at  once. 

Wet? 

It's  wetter  than  being  drowned. 

Dark? 

Such  darkness  never  was  found 

Since  the  first  light  was  made.     And   cold  ? 

0  come  to  the  land  of  grapes  and  gold, 

Of  fruit  and  flowers  and  sunshine  gay, 

When  the  rainy  season 's  under  way  ! 

And  they  tell  you  calmly,  evermore, 
They  never  had  such  rain  before  ! 

What's  that  you  say?     Come  out? 

Why,  see  that  sky! 

Oh,  what  a  world  !  so  clear  !  so  high  ! 

So  clean  and  lovely  all  about  — 

The  sunlight  burning  through   and   through, 

And  everything  just  blazing  blue ; 


FROM  RUSSIAN  HILL.  159 

And   look !  the  whole  world  blossoms  again 
The   minute  the   sunshine   follows  the  rain. 
Warm   sky  —  earth   basking  under  — 
Did   it  ever  rain,  I   wonder  ? 


FROM   RUSSIAN   HILL. 

A  strange  day  —  bright  and  still; 
Strange  for  the  stillness  here, 
For  the  strong  trade  winds  blow 
With  such  a  steady  sweep  it  seems  like  rest, 
Forever  steadily  across  the  crest 
Of  Russian  Hill. 

Still  now,  and  clear  — 

So  clear  you  count  the  houses  spreading  wide 
In  the  fair  cities  on  the  farther  side 
Of  our  broad  bay  ; 

And  brown  Goat  Island  lieth  large  between, 
Its  brownness  brightening  into  sudden  green 
From  rains  of  yesterday. 

Blue  ?     Blue  above  of  Californian  sky, 
Which  has  no  peer  on  earth  for  its  pure  flame  ; 
Bright  blue  of  bay  and  strait  spread  wide  below, 
And,  past  the  low  dull  hills  that  hem  it  so  — 
Blue  as  the  sky,  blue  as  the  placid  bay  — 
Blue  mountains  far  away. 


160  SONGS  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

Thanks  this  year  for  the  early  rains  that  came 
To  bless  us,  meaning  summer  by  and  by. 
This  is  our  Spring -in  -  Autumn,  making  one 
The  Indian  Summer  tenderness  of  sun  — 
Its  hazy  stillness  soft,  and  far -heard  sound  — 
And  the  sweet  riot  of  abundant  spring, 
The  greenness  flaming  out  from  everything, 
The  sense  of  coming  gladness  in  the  ground. 

From  this  high  peace  and  purity  look  down ; 
Between  you  and  the  blueness  lies  the  town. 
Under  those  huddled  roofs  the  heart  of  man 
Beats  warmer  than  this  brooding  day, 
Spreads  wider  than  the  hill -rimmed  bay, 
And  throbs  to  tenderer  life,  were  it  but  seen, 
Than  all  this  new-born,  all -enfolding  green  ! 

Within  that  heart  lives  still 
All  that  one  guesses,  dreams,  and  sees  — 
Sitting  in  sunlight,  warm,  at  ease  — 
From  this  high  island  —  Russian  Hill. 


POWELL   STREET. 

You  start 

From  the  town's  hot  heart 

To  ride  up  Powell  street. 

Hotel  and  theatre  and  crowding  shops, 

And  Market's  cabled  stream  that  never  stops, 


POWELL  STREET.  161 

And  the  mixed  hurrying  beat 

Of  countless  feet  — 

Take  a  front  seat. 

Before  you  rise 

Six  terraced  hills,  up  to  the  low -hung  skies: 

Low  where  across  the  hill  they  seem  to  lie, 

And  then  —  how  high! 

Up  you  go  slowly.     To  the  right 

A  wide  square,  green  and  bright. 

Above  that  green  a  broad  facade, 

Strongly  and  beautifully  made, 

In  warm  clear  color  standeth  fair  and  true 

Against  the  blue. 

Only,  above,  two  purple  domes  rise  bold, 

Twin-budded  spires,  bright-tipped  with  balls  of  gold. 

Past  that,  and  up  you  glide, 

Up,  up,  till,  either  side, 

Wide  earth  and  water  stretch  around  —  away  — 

The  straits,  the  hills,  and  the  low-lying,  wide-spread, 

dusky  bay. 
Great  houses  here, 
Dull,  opulent,  severe. 

Dives'  gold  birds  on  guarding  lamps  a -wing  — 
Dead  gold,  that  may  not  sing  ! 
Fair  on  the  other  side 
Smooth,  steep-laid  sweeps  of  turf  and  green  boughs 

waving  wide. 

This  is  the  hilltop's  crown. 
Below  you,  down 


162  SONGS  OF  SAN  FRANCISCO. 

In  blurred,  dim  streets,  the  market  quarter  lies, 
Foul  —  narrow  —  torn  with  cries 
Of  tortured  things  in  cages,  and  the  smell 
Of  daily  bloodshed  rising  ;  that  is  hell. 

But  up  here  on  the  crown  of  Powell  street 

The  air  is  sweet ; 

And  the  green  swaying  mass  of  eucalyptus  bends 

Like  hands  of  friends, 

To  gladden  you  despite  the  mansions's  frown. 

Then  you  go  down. 

Down,  down,  and  round  the  turns  to  lower  grades  ; 

Lower  in  all  ways  ;  darkening  with  the  shades 

Of  poverty,  old  youth,  and  unearned  age, 

And  that  quick  squalor  which  so  blots  the  page 

Of  San  Francisco's  beauty  —  swift  decay 

Chasing  the; shallow  grandeur  of  a  day. 

Here,  like  a  noble  lady  of  lost  state, 

Still  calmly  smiling  at  encroaching  fate, 

Amidst  the  squalor,  rises  Russian  Hill  — 

Proud  —  isolated  —  Ion  ely  —  lovely  still. 

So  on  you  glide. 

Till  the  blue  straits  lie  wide 

Before  you  ;  purple  mountains  loom  across  ; 

And  islands  green  as  moss  ; 

With  soft  white  fog-wreaths  drifting,  drifting  through 

To  comfort  you  ; 

And  light  low  -  singing  waves  that  tell  you  reach 

The  end  — North  Beach. 


THE  SATIRIST. 


A   NEW   YEAR'S   REMINDER. 

Better  have  a  tender  conscience  for  the  record  of 

your  house, 

And  your  own  share  in  the  work  which  they  have 
done, 

Though  your  private  conscience  aches 
With  your  personal  mistakes, 
And  you  don't  amount  to  very  much  alone, 

Than  to  be  yourself  as  spotless  as  a  baby  one  year 
old  — 

Your  domestic  habits  wholly  free  from   blame, 
While  the  company  you  stand   with 
Is  a  thing  to  curse  a  land  with, 

And  your  public  life  is  undiluted  shame, 


164  THE  SATIRIST. 

For  the  deeds  men  do  together  are  what  saves  the 

world  to  -  day  — 
By  our  common  public  work  we  stand  or  fall  — 

And  your  fraction  of  the  sin 

Of  the  office  you  are  in 
Is  the  sin  that 's  going  to  damn  you  after  all ! 


LITTLE   CELL. 

Little   Cell !   Little   Cell !    with  a   heart   as   big   as 

heaven  — 

Remember  that  you  are  but  a  part ! 
This  great  longing  in  your  soul 
Is  the  longing  of  the  whole  — 
And  your  work  is  not  done  with  your  heart ! 

Don't  imagine,  Little  Cell, 

That  the  work  you  do  so  well 

Is  the  only  work  the  world  needs  to  do ! 

You  are  wanted  in  your  place 

For  the  growing  of  the  race, 

But  the  growing  does  not  all  depend  on  you  ! 

Little  Cell !    Little  Cell !    with  a  race's   whole   am- 
bition— 

Remember  there  are  others  growing,  too  ! 
You've  been  noble  —  you've  been  strong  — 
Rest  a  while  and  come  along  — 
Let  the  world  take  a  turn  and  carry  you  ! 


THE  MODEST  MAID.  166 

THE   MODEST   MAID. 

I  am  a  modest  San  Francisco  maid, 

Fresh,  fair,  and  young, 
Such  as  the  painters  gladly  have  displayed, 

The  poets  sung. 

Modest?  —  Oh,  modest  as  a  bud  unblown, 

A  thought  unspoken  — 
Hidden  and  cherished,  unbeheld,  unknown, 

In  peace  unbroken. 

Far  from  the  holy  shades  of  this  my  home, 

The  coarse  world  raves, 
And  the  New  Woman  cries  to  heaven's  dome 

For  what  she  craves. 

Loud,  vulgar,  public,  screaming  from  the  stage, 

Her  skirt  divided, 
Riding  cross-saddled  on  the  dying  age, 

Justly  derided. 

I  blush  for  her,  I  blush  for  our  sweet  sex 

By  her  disgraced. 
My  sphere  is  home.     My  soul  I  do  not  vex 

With  zeal  misplaced. 

Come  then  to  me  with  happy  heart,  O  man  ! 

I  wait  your  visit. 
To  guide  your  footsteps  I  do  all  I  can, 

Am  most  explicit. 


166  THE  SATIRIST. 

As  veined  flower -petals  teach  the  passing  bee 

The  way  to  honey, 
So  printer's  ink  displayed  instructeth  thee 

Where  lies  my  money. 

Go  see  !     In  type  and  cut  across  the  page, 

Before  the  nation 
There  you  may  read  about  my  eyes,  my  age, 

My  education, 

My  fluffy  golden  hair,  my  tiny  feet, 

My  pet  ambition, 
My  well -developed  figure,  and  my  sweet 

Retiring  disposition. 

All,  all  is  there,  and  now  I  coyly  wait. 

Pray  don't  delay. 
My  address  does  the  Blue  Book  plainly  state, 

And  mamma's  "day." 


TECHNIQUE. 

Cometh  to-day  the  very  skillful  man, 
Profoundly  skillful  in   his  chosen  art, 

All  things  that  other  men  can  do  he  can, 
And  do  them   better.     He    is  very   smart. 

Sayeth,  "My  work  is  here  before  you  all  — 
Come  now  with  duly  cultured  mind  to  view  it, 

Here  is  great  work,  no  part  of  it  is  small  — 
Perceive  how  well  I  do  it ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  CHARGE.  167 

"I  do  it  to  perfection.     Studious  years 

Were  spent  to  reach  the  pinnacle  I  've  won, 
Labor  and  thought  are  in  my  work,  and  tears  — 
Behold  how  well  't  is  done  ! 

"  See  with  what  power  this  great  effect  is  shown  — 
See  with  what  ease  you   get  the   main  idea ; 
A  master  in   my  art,  I  stand  alone  — 
Now  you   may  praise  —  I  hear." 

And  I,  "  0  master,    I  perceive  your  sway, 
I  note  the  years  of  study,  toil,  and  strain 

That  brought  the  easy  power  you  wield  to-day, 
The  height  you   now  attain. 

"Freely  your  well -trained  power  I  see  you  spend, 

Such  skill  in  all  ray  life  I  never  saw  ; 
You  have  done  nobly  ;  but  my  able  friend, 
What  have  you  done  it  for  ? 

"  You  have  no  doubt  achieved  your  dearest  end, 
Your  work  is  faultless  to  the  cultured  view, 
You  do  it  well,  but  0  my  able  friend  — 
What  is  it  that  you  do?" 


THE   MOTHER'S   CHARGE. 

She  raised  her  head.     With  hot  and  glittering  eye, 
"I  know,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  going  to  die. 
Come  here,  my  daughter,  while  my  mind  is  clear  — 
Let  me  make  plain  to  you  your  duty  here, 


168  THE  SATIRIST. 

My  duty  once  —  I  never  failed  to  try  — 

But  for  some  reason  I  am  going  to  die." 

She  raised  her  head,  and,  while  her  eyes  rolled  wild, 

Poured  these  instructions  on  the  gasping  child  : 

"Begin  at  once  —  don't  iron  sitting  down  — 
Wash  your  potatoes  when  the  fat  is  brown  — 
Monday,  unless  it  rains  —  it  always  pays 
To  get  fall  sewing  done  on  the  right  days  — 
A  carpet  sweeper  and  a  little  broom  — 
Save  dishes  —  wash  the  summer  dining  room 
With  soda — keep  the  children  out  of  doors  — 
The  starch  is  out  —  beeswax  on  all  the  floors  — 
If  girls  are  treated  like  your  friends  they  stay  — 
They  stay,  and  treat  you  like  their  friends — the  way 
To  make  home  happy  is  to  keep  a  jar  — 
And  save  the  prettiest  pieces  for  the  star 
In  the  middle  —  blue's  too  dark  —  all  silk  is  best  — 
And  don't  forget  the  corners  —  when  they're  dressed 
Put  them  on  ice  —  and  always  wash  the  chest 
Three  times  a  day,  the  windows  every  week  — 
We  need  more  flour  —  the  bedroom  ceilings  leak  — 
It's  better  than  onion  —  keep  the  boys  at  home  — 
Gardening  is  good  —  a  load,  three  loads  of  loam  — 
They  bloom  in   spring  —  and  smile,  smile  always, 

dear  — 
Be  brave,  keep,  on  —  I  hope  I've  made  it  clear." 

She  died,  as  all  her  mothers  died  before. 

Her  daughter  died  in  turn,  and  made  one  more. 


A  NEW  CREATION. 


A   NEW   CREATION. 

What  is   that,  mother  ?     A  head,  my  child, 

The  house   of  a  human  hrain ; 
A  windowed   musical  palace  of  thought 
By    whose   clear   light  the   world   was   brought 

To  all  its  growth    and   gain. 

What  is  that,  mother?    'Tis  hair,  my  child, 

Long  beautiful  human   hair, 
Whose  parallel  grace  of  curve  and  flow 
Is  cut  and   twisted    and    tortured   so 

You  doubt  it  ever  was  there. 

What  is  that,  mother  ?     A  hat,  my  child, 

To  cover  a  human   head ; 

Shelter  and  grace  for  the  house  of  the  brain  - 
With   colors  of  discord   and  lines  of  pain 

And   ornaments  from   the  dead. 

What  is  that,  mother  ?     I  do  not  know, 

The  milliner  finds  it  fair ; 
Over  head   and  hair  and   hat  they  grow, 
Tail,  tooth  and  claw,  wing,  plume,  and  bow, 
Silk,  velvet,  lace,  and  jewel's  glow, 
Fur,  flowers,  ribbon,  beads  a -row, 
Aigrette,  rosette,  and  bright  bandeau  — 

A  new  creation  there. 


170  THE  SATIRIST. 


CONNOISSEURS. 

"  No,"  said  the  Cultured   Critic,  gazing  haughtily 
Whereon    some    untrained    brush    had    wandered 
naughtily, 

From  canons  free  ; 

"Work  such  as  this  lacks  value  and  perspective, 
Has  no  real  feeling  —  inner  or  reflective  — 
Does  not  appeal  to  me." 

Then  quoth  the  vulgar,  knowing  art  but  meagerly, 
Their  unbesought  opinions  airing  eagerly, 

"  Why,  ain't  that  flat  !  " 

Voicing  their  ignorance  all   unconcernedly, 
Saying  of  what  the  Critic  scored  so  learnedly, 

"I  don't  like  that!" 

The  Critic  now  vouchsafed  approval  sparingly 
Of  what  some  genius  had  attempted   daringly, 

"This  fellow  tries  — 

He  handles  his  conception  frankly,  feelingly, 
Such  work  as  this,  done  strongly  and  appealingly, 
I  recognize." 

The  vulgar,  gazing  widely  and  unknowingly, 
Still  volunteered  their  cheap  impressions  flowingly, 

"Oh,  come  and  see!" 

But  all  that  they  could   say  of  art's  reality 
Was  this  poor  voice  of  poorer  personality, 

"Now,  that  suits  me!" 


A   TYPE.  171 

A   TYPE. 

I  am  too  little,  said   the    Wretch, 

For  any  one  to  see. 
Among  the  million   men  who  do 
This  thing  that  I  am   doing  too, 

Why  should  they   notice  me? 

My  sin  is  common  as  to  breathe ; 

It  rests  on  every  back, 
And  surely  I  am   not  to  blame 
Where  everybody  does  the  same  — 

Am  not  a  bit  more   black  ! 

And  so  he  took  his  willing  share 

In   a  universal  crime, 
Thinking  that  no  reproach  could  fall 
On   one  who  shared  the  fault  of  all, 

Who  did  it  all  the  time. 

Then  Genius  came,  and  showed  the   world 

What  thing  it  was  they  did ; 
How  their  offense  had  reached  the  poles 
With  stench  of  slain  unburied  souls  — 

And  all  men  cowered  and  hid. 

Then  Genius  took  that  one  poor  Wretch  — 

For  now  the  time  was  ripe ; 
Stripped  him  of  every  shield  and  blind, 
And  nailed  him    up  for  all  mankind 

To  study — as  a  type! 


172  THE  SATIRIST. 


UNMENTIONABLE. 

There  is  a  thing  of  which  I  fain  would   speak, 

Yet  shun  the  deed  ; 
Lest  hot  disgust  flush  the  averted   cheek 

Of  those  who  read. 

And  yet  it  is  common  in   our  sight 

As  dust  or  grass  ; 
Loathed   by  the  lifted  skirt,  the  tiptoe  light, 

Of  those  who  pass. 

We  say   no  word,  but  the  big  placard  rests 

Frequent  in   view, 
To  sicken  those  who  do  not  with  requests 

Of  those  who  do. 

"  Gentlemen   will  not,"  the  mild   placards  say. 

They  read  with   scorn. 
"Gentlemen   must  not" — they  defile  the  way 

Of  those  who  warn. 

On    boat  and  car  the  careful  lady  lifts 

Her  dress  aside ; 
If  careless  —  think,  fair  traveler,  of  the  gifts 

Of  those  who  ride  ! 

On  every  hall  and   sidewalk,   floor  and  stair, 

Where   man 's  at  home, 
This  loathsomeness  is  added  to  the  care 

Of  those  who  come. 


NEW  YEAR'S  DAY.  173 

As  some  foul  slug  his  trail  of  slime  displays 

On  leaf  and  stalk, 
These  street -beasts  make  a  horror  in  the  ways 

Of  those,  who  walk. 

We  cannot  ask  reform  of  those  who  do  — 

They  can't,  or  won't. 
We  can  express  the  scorn,  intense   and  true, 

Of  those  who  don't. 


NEW    YEAR'S   DAY. 

RONDEAU. 

On  New  Year's  Day  he  plans  a  cruise 
To  Heaven  straight  —  no  time  to  lose! 
Vowing  to  live  so  virtuously 
That  each  besetting  sin  shall  flee- 
Good  resolutions  wide  he  strews 
On  New  Year's  Day. 

A  while  he  minds  his  p's  and  q's, 
And  all  temptations  doth  refuse, 
Recalling  his  resolves  so  free 
On  New  Year's  Day. 

But  in  the  long  year  that  ensues, 
They  fade  away  by  threes  and  twos  — 
The  place  we  do  not  wish  to  see 
Is  paved  with  all  he  meant  to  be, 
When  he  next  year  his  life  reviews  — 
On  New  Year's  Day. 


174  THE  SATIRIST. 

NEWS. 

Crieth  the  empty  public,  greedily, 

"  I  want  the  news  I  " 

And  they  who  write  and  publish,  needily, 
Come  running  to  his  cry,  and  fill  him  speedily 

With  what  they  choose. 

With  all  that  they  can  steal  or  beg  or  borrow 

Of  crimes  and  shames, 

Serving  prodigious  tales  of  sin  and  sorrow 
That  happened  yesterday  and  will  to-morrow, 

With  different  names. 

The  newest  murder  heads  the  blackened  pages 

With  spreading  stains. 

News  ?     Is  it  news  to  know  the  lion   rages  ? 
Your  newest  murder  smells  of  oldest  ages, 

As  old  as  Cain's. 

News  of  a  man's  defencelessness  —  temptation  — 

(Which  all  believe)  — 
News  of  a  woman's  sudden   education 
In  good  and  evil's  fine  discrimination  — 

As  old  as  Eve  ! 

We  want  real  news  —  not  tales  of  dying,  wooing, 

And  such  old  lore  — 

We  want  to  hear  of  big  events  now   brewing, 
We  want  to  know  the  things  the  world  is  doing, 

Not  done  before. 


THE  PASTELLETTE.  175 

The  public  wtmld  be  pleased  with  less  of  darinc:, 

If  it  could   choose  ; 

With  less  of  private  life  hung  out  for  airing  — 
Mere  nursery  tales  in  which  we  all  are  sharing  — 

And  more  real  news. 

News  !    World-old   tales  of  man's  first  freaks  and 
poses, 

Primal  mistakes. 

They  cannot  see  the  news  before  their  noses  — 
Only  these  fresh,  the  crowded  sheet  discloses  — 

Some  bran  -  new  fakes  ! 


THE   PASTELLETTE. 

The  pastelle  is  too  strong,  said  he. 
Lo  !    I  will  make  it  fainter  yet ! 
And  he  wrought  with  tepid  ecstasy 
A  pastellette. 

A  touch  —  a  word  —  a  tone  half  caught  — 

He  softly  felt  and   handled  them  ; 
Flavor  of  feeling  —  scent  of  thought  — 
Shimmer  of  gem  — 

That  we   may  read,  and  feel  as  he 

What  vague,  pale  pleasure  we  can  get 
From   this   mild,  witless  mystery  — 
The  pastellette. 


176  THE  SATIRIST. 

WORK   AND   WAGES. 

John  Burns  receives  in  weekly  pay 

Five  pounds  as  wages,  clear  ; 
But  a  London  banker,  wise  and  great, 
Says  John  is  worth  to  the  English   state 
Three   million  pounds  a  year. 

He  gives  three  million  pounds  in   work, 

Gets  fifty-two  times  five ; 
It  does  not  seem  exactly  straight 
That  he  who  serves  so  well  the  state 

Should  just  be  kept  alive. 

John  Rockefeller  corners  oil, 
To  make  thereby  a  living  ; 

And,  by  an  odd  coincidence, 

He  makes  —  an  income  most  immense  — 
Just  what  John  Burns  is  giving. 

He  gives  —  the  skill  to  corner  oil! 

Gets  fifteen  million  yearly  ; 
(Dollars  for  pounds  the  sum's   the   same,) 
But  how  in  all  creation's  name, 

Does  it  come   to  match   so  queerly  ? 

The  rich  man   makes   his  yearly  claim, 

John   Burns'  labor  meets  it ; 
But  why  should  one   man   feed  the  earth, 
Enriching   it   by   all    he's   worth, 
If  Rockefeller  eats  it  ? 


STEP  FASTER,  PLEASE.  177 

And  why  should   Rockefeller  have, 

For  handing  round  the  oil, 
For  his  own  self  in  private  wealth 
Fruit  of  the  teeming  strength  and  health 

Of  such   unstinted  toil  ? 

John   Burns  is  rich  and  feeds  the  world, 

The  world  will  soon   forget  him  ; 
John  Rockefeller,  poor  and  lean, 
Licks  all  our  fullest  platters  clean  — 
It's  funny  that  we  let  him  ! 


STEP   FASTER,  PLEASE. 

Of  all  most  aggravating  things, 

If  you  are  hot  in  haste, 
Is  to  have  a  man  in  front  of  you 

With  half  a  day  to  waste. 

There  is  this  one  thing  that  justifies 
The  man  in  the  foremost  place  — 

The  fact  that  he  is  the  man  in  front, 
The  leader  of  the  race. 

But,  for  Heaven's  sake,  if  you  are  ahead, 

Don't  dawdle  at  your  ease  ! 
You  set  the  pace  for  the  man  behind; 

Step  faster,  please  ! 


178  THE  SATIRIST. 


OUR   SAN   FRANCISCO   CLIMATE. 

Said  I  to  my  friend   from  the  East  — 

A  tenderfoot  he  — 
As  I  showed   him  the  greatest  and   least 

Of  our  hills  by  the  sea — 
"  How  do  you  like  our  climate  ? " 

And  I  smiled  in  my  glee. 

I  showed  him  the  blue  of  the  hills, 

And  the  blue  of  the  sky, 
And  the  blue  of  the  beautiful  bay 

Where  the  ferry-boats  ply  — 
And  "  How  do  you  like  our  climate  ?  " 

Securely  asked  I. 

Then  the  wind   blew  over  the  sand, 

And  the  fog  came  down, 
And  the  papers  and  dust  were   on   hand 

All  over  the  town  — 
"  How  do  you  like  our  climate  ? " 

I  cried  with  a  frown. 

On  the  corner  we  stood  as  we  met 

Awaiting  a  car ; 
Beneath  us  a  vent-hole  was  set, 

As  our  street  corners  are  — 
And  street  corners  in  our  San  Francisco 

Are  perceptible  far. 


CHRISTMAS  TIME.  179 

He  meant  to  have  answered,  of  course, 

I  could  see  that  he  tried  ; 
But  he  had  not  the  strength   of  a  horse, 

And  before  he  replied 
The  climate  rose  up  from  that  corner  in  force, 

And  he  died  ! 


CHRISTMAS   TIME. 

'T  is  Christmas  time,  my  little  son, 

The   birthday  of  the  Lord, 
Who  said  he  came  to  bring  on  earth 
Not  peace,  dear,  but  a  sword. 

"  Peace  and  good  will,"  the  angels  sing 

On  the  birthday   of  the  Lord  ; 
But  Christ  declared  he  came  to   bring 
Not  peace,  dear,  but  a  sword. 

He  said   he  came  to  set  the  son 

At  variance  with   his  sire, 
And  that  a  man's   foes  should  be  found 

Around  his  household   fire. 

So  it  is  right  that  we  should  see, 
On  the  birthday  of  the  Lord, 

In  a  million  hearts  a  million  hates, 
In  a  million  hands  a  sword. 

No  wonder  that  our  homes  are  rent, 
That  brother  hateth  brother, 


180  THE  SATIRIST. 

No  wonder  that  our  lives  are  spent 
In  ruining  each  other. 

No  wonder  that  the  most  of  men 
Still  hunt  and  fight  for  food  — 

The  wonder  is  that  any  one 
Is  ever  half  so  good. 

But  this  is  Christmas  time,  my  son, 
Go  get  your  broken  toys, 

And  give  to  the   ungrateful  hands 
Of  poorer  girls  and  boys. 

Rtfjoice  in  your  big  Christmas  tree, 

My  happy   little  lad, 
And  wonder  not  that  most  of  us 

Are  hungry,  sour,  and   sad. 

What 's  that  you  say,  my  little  son  ? 

Christ  came  to  teach  us  love  — 
Love   all  the  time,  for  every  one, 

And  the  great  joy  thereof? 

I  grant  you  that  it  reads  that  way, 
But  who  are  you  to  stand 

Against  the  wisdom   of  the   day 
In  every  Christian  land  ? 

Here  are  the  facts,  my  little  son  — 
And  facts   are   stubborn   things ; 

Judge  if  the  state  of  man  to-day 
Is  what  the  angel  sings. 


IN  RE  "  ANDROMANIACS."  181 

IN   RE   "ANDROMANIACS." 

Parkhurst  says  that  woman  is  superior, 

Man,  her   son,  confessedly  inferior  ; 

That   Scripture  proves  her  excellence  interior  — 

"  God's  favorite  sex  "  is  she  ; 

Pray  forgive  the  scientific  querier 

Who  asks  how  that  can  be. 

He  says  't  is  not  in  the  body  or  the  mind  of  her, 
But  an  element  constituent  in  all  that  you  can  find 

of  her, 
Not  to  see  it  is  obdurate  and  blind  of  her, 

Stupid  as  can  be  ; 
She  is  queen  because  of  it  —  truly,  more  than  kind 

of  her  ! 
Queen   of  man  is  she. 

She  is  best,  because  of  femininity. 
Man,  poor  wretch,  has  only  masculinity. 
Here  stands  forth  this  servant  of  the  Trinity 

To  show  which  God  prefers  — 
The   crowns  and   palms  and   prizes   of  infinity 

Undoubtedly   are   hers. 

Still  poor  man  may  rule  the  world  and  fight  in  it, 
Teach  and  preach  and  .hold  his  little  light  in  it, 
Toil  and  plan  that  living  may  be  bright  in  it, 

All  for  the  sake  of  love  ; 
She   has  only   to   keep  from  any  right  in   it, 

To  hold  her  place  above. 


THE  SATIRIST. 

THE   SAN   FRANCISCO  HEN. 

The  San  Francisco   house  -  mama 

A  happy  dame  is  she, 
When  feeding  to  her  gathered  young 

The  fragrant  fricasee, 
The  amber  broth  for  invalids, 
Rich  broilers  for  the  men, 
With  boiled,  and  roast, 
And  hash  on  toast, 
Of  the   San  Francisco  hen. 

But  walk  the  wholesale  market  streets, 

Ye  housewives  kind  and  wise, 
And  on  the  poultry  set  for  sale 

Fix  your  discerning  eyes ; 
In  crowded  cages  huddled   down, 
Unwatered  and  unfed, 
In  fear  and  pain, 
In  sun  and  rain, 
They   scream  till  they  are  dead. 

They  live  in  filth   and  agony, 

They   die   in  shrieking  fear  — 

Come  down,  ye  guardians  of  the   home, 
And  see  and   smell  and   hear ! 

Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled 
By   the  tortures  you  behold, 


"EN  BANC."  183 

But  judge  if  meat 
Is  good  to  eat 
Defiled  before  it's  sold. 

The  meekest  housewife  may  assume 

An   interest  in   the  health 
Of  those  about  her  board  who  earn  — 

Who  are  the  country's  wealth; 
And  meat  like  this  means  yi1^  disease 
Among  the  sons  of  men  — 
Not  to  dilate 
On  the  ghastly  fate 
Of  the  San  Francisco  hen. 


"EN   BANC." 

(CALIFORNIA.) 

Associate  Justices  of  Court  Supreme ! 

Stern  arbiters  of  destiny  in  law  I 
Thy  gathered  dignity  and  power  would  seem 

August  a  thing  as  people  ever  saw. 

Associate  Justices  of  Court  Supreme  I 

Sitting  en  bane  to  punish  for  contempt ; 

To  see  you  sitting,  who  would  ever  dream* 
That  you  from  such  opinion  were  exempt? 


184  THE  SATIRIST. 

A  crowded  room  with  vulgar  men  who  spit  — 
Spit  on  the  crimson  carpet  without  shame. 

This  before  Justice  —  in  the  sight  of  it  — 

The  highest  thing  for  which  we  have  a  name  ! 

Then  "  Hear  ye  !     Hear  ye  !     Hear  ye  !  "  is  the  cry, 
We  rise,  they  shamble  in,  the  court  room  stares, 

While  these  great  Justices  en  bane  go  by 

And  take  pos        "          f  thei      -ocking-  chairs. 

Their  rocking-chairs.    Their  c:me-backed  rocking- 
chairs  1 

Wherein  they  swing  and  dandle  to  and  fro, 
Lounging  and  stretching      has       lazy  airs 

As  smoking-rooms  and  billiard  parlors  know. 

Grave  issues  hang  on  every  spoken  word, 
The  people  listen,  whispering  in  pairs, 

The  ca^e  proceeds,  and  through  it  all  is  heard 
The  steady  squeaking  of  their  rocking-chairs. 

How  can  we  honor  Justice  when  'tis  seen 

In  men  who  shame  her  temple  (or  her  tomb), 

Who  can  insult  the  Goddess  with  a  mien 

That  would  debar  them  from  a  drawing-room  ? 

No  reverence  is  too  deep  from  those  who  claim 
The  highest  ground  that  mortal  soul  has  trod  ; 

Those  who  serve  Justice,  standing  in  her  name, 
3e  mve  in  the  presence  of  the  living  God. 

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